


On Ambivalence, Loyalty, and Betrayal

by swindalynn



Category: She-Ra: Princess Of Power (1985)
Genre: Action, Angst, Drama, F/F, a darker adult oriented take on She-ra, because I was a morbid child, catra is totes gay for adora, friends who could have become lovers who become enemies who still sort want to become lovers maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-08-24 02:11:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16630877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swindalynn/pseuds/swindalynn
Summary: Force Captain Adora is the most loyal of all of Hordak's officers and she believes in aiding him above all else. Circumstances beyond her control set her on a path to betray not only the only father-figure she's known, but also the one other relationship that defines her, her relationship with Catra. The Rebellion is suspicious and Adora has to balance the broken trust on both sides in order to save everyone, but her life as Adora and as She-ra is nowhere near the shining heroics one thinks it might be.





	1. Prologue: The Heavy Price of Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a tad too young to have seen the cartoon airing, but I had all the toys. My brother had all the He-Man toys. We were fascinated. Brother-sister hero duo? And we're brother and sister? Heck yeah! As a kid, I came up with my own version of the backstory to She-ra and Adora's switching of sides. This is adult me actually writing that childhood story out. And holy shit was I a morbidly depressing child.

Hello, Stranger, and welcome to Etheria. Here is a map.

It’s a lush world of exotic plants and animals. The people are simple and live in small villages that dot the plains. The forests are wide and dense with towering trees of interesting hues. The seas are full of pirates who accept employment from anyone with the money to pay them. The Kingdom of Mystacor, with its floating land masses, lies to the South. The Castle Chill reigns over the frozen north where the cold never leaves your bones. The Kingdom of Bright Moon is to the east. See that dark area near Bright Moon? That’s the Fright Zone, headquarters to the terrible Horde. All of this shaded area is the territory of the Horde. The Crimson Waste, the range of mountains where the harpies dwell, all of it belongs to the Horde now.

The truth is, Stranger, you have walked right into the middle of a war. This is no menial war that will be forgotten in the coming century. The very fate of Etheria lay in the hands of a small group of rebels who fight against the expanse of the Horde’s extending empire. Leading that empire is Hordak, a power hungry man with big aspirations, a deadly combination in any world.

Be wary of the Horde. At the top of its ranks is the sorceress Shadow Weaver. She will ensnare you in a web of black magic and confuse you so terribly that friends become foes. Don’t be trapped in small quarters with Force Lt. Catra. She has deadly claws and a panther that will crunch the life out of you. Most of all, stay clear of Force Captain Adora, Hordak’s most trusted minion. She will not think twice before gutting you or leaving you to rot in a prison cell on Beast Island. 

If you find yourself stuck in Etheria, seek out Madam, the witch who keeps the whereabouts of the Great Rebellion hidden from the Horde. Through Madam, you’ll meet Bow, a man of arrows and archery and he’ll introduce you to Glimmer of Bright Moon and her mother Queen Angella, the leaders of the Great Rebellion. 

Shh. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell a soul. No one must know that the Great Rebellion hides in the thickness of Whispering Woods and that the entrance of the woods moves from one location to the next, always one step ahead of the Horde. Don’t let anyone know that the rebels have made the Woods their base of operations and that deep in the heart where the Whispers never cease and the wind never blows, the rebels are organizing and strategizing. The Horde have spies everywhere and Hordak would pay handsomely for the whereabouts of this secret base. Remember. The Horde are everywhere. 

Welcome to Etheria, Stranger. Welcome to a world where freedom has a heavy price.


	2. Lunar Eclipse

In the distance where the hills disappear into rolling plains, the only visual sign of the siege on Bright Moon is the incessant smoke that has been billowing into the air above the city for the past three days. The people who live in villages scattered in the realm don’t know how their side fairs in the battle but the plants are starting to whither. They look at the plants and then look at the black smoke above the palace and they worry.

“Don’t worry.” Parents hold their children close. “Queen Angella will keep us safe.” 

It’s like a mantra and the children close their eyes believing that this is true. The children are the only ones who sleep this night. 

\---

The castle walls are beginning to crumble under the heavy assault. Large boulders pound the exterior and the ceiling is starting to crack, dust and debris falling all around and crashing to the floor. Queen Angella is not stupid. She knows very well that Castle Bright Moon is going to fall tonight. Her daughter, Glimmer, in the prime of youth at a mere twenty years, huddles over a table where an image of the surrounding Horde army has been conjured into existence. Angella knows that her daughter is rash and proud but she also knows that her daughter has good potential, that she can become a great leader some day. All she needs to do is survive this night. 

Glimmer stands and glances over her shoulder. “The castle isn’t going to hold forever, Mother. We have to get you out of here. We can use the escape channel beneath the castle and Madam and Bow can take you to the Whispering Woods.” 

Queen Angella looks up into the high ceiling of her throne room, the only place in the palace fortified with six feet of solid stone walls. Eventually, this room too will be taken. When that happens, Angella thinks to herself, then what? 

“You’re right, Glimmer,” she says and stands. “Send out a full retreat. Get our warriors out of the field and into the forests. The Horde can’t follow past the tree line in their machines.”

The castle shakes fiercely as the front gates are blown into timber and Angella grabs her daughter and holds her tight. “Go downstairs ahead of me. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

“What about you?” Glimmer asks. “I’m not leaving without you.” 

“It’s all right.” Angella smiles. She smoothes Glimmer’s hair with a palm in the same manner she did when Glimmer was a little girl. “I still have one last thing I need to do.” 

“But, Mother-,” Glimmer begins but Angella rushes her out the door with a swift push. 

“Go,” she says sternly. “I will meet you there.” 

Hesitantly, Glimmer merely nods and takes a few steps backwards. Then she turns around and runs. She has several tasks she must accomplish. She must call the retreat. She must guide the men to the forests. Then she must wait for her mother at the south of the castle. Angella watches her daughter disappear around a corner. She draws herself up and lowers her shoulders then makes her way up the few steps to her throne where she sits, posture perfectly poised, as is expected of a queen. 

Her castle has fallen. The Horde have ceased fire and that can only mean that they’re already in the palace, making their way to her. Angella sucks in cool air, feels the chalky dust on her throat and swallows. She waits for her enemy to come. 

When the large doors to the throne room are blown open and the shrapnel whizzes by her ear, Angella keeps her gaze on the smoke as a woman appears in it. The blonde hair and uniform are unmistakable. Even though she has never set eyes on the woman before, Angella knows who she is. 

“Good evening, Force Captain Adora,” Angella says. “I assume you have come for me.” 

Adora holds a gun in her hands and points the barrel directly at her. The smirk on her lips is cruel and pleased and she enters the room with a pack of drones and her second-in-command, who looks around the large room and whistles. 

“Fancy,” she says. 

“Throne rooms normally are, Lahni,” Adora tells her and then approaches Angella’s throne cautiously. To Angella, she says, “No amount of magic will help you right now.”

Angella nods. “It’s all right, Captain. I don’t intend to fight you.” 

At this Adora grips her gun tighter and bends her knees for better stability. Angella chuckles to herself and then stands from her throne one last time. She walks down the few steps until she is on the same level as the invading Horde and holds out her arms where they can see them. 

“You’re wise to be so cautious,” she tells Adora as one wrist is cuffed and curled behind her back and attached to the other. “But while you focused all your attention on me, you’ve let my daughter and the rebels escape.”

“My orders were to capture you,” Adora says and fits a metal collar around the slender neck of the queen. “This was never about numbers. It was only about gain. Your kingdom lies between the Fright Zone and the rest of our empire. Losing you may not end the Rebellion, but it will definitely hurt. ” 

“I'm well aware of the tactical advantage Bright Moon gives you, Captain. You don't have to explain,” Angella says, allowing herself to be led away by Adora's hand firmly on her shoulder and the heavy chain attached to the collar. “But you underestimate the rebellion.” 

“Perhaps, your majesty, but my Lord Hordak certainly doesn't.” Adora leads her out of the room and down the hallways covered in debris. 

Neither woman says anything else as they walk leaving the only sound in the corridor that of the clinking chains accenting their footsteps. Angella walks with her head high despite the humiliating collar around her neck and the humorous way the shackles around her feet make her walk. Her hands are bound behind her with simple rope. Adora guides her with consideration, something Angella would find surprising if she were capable of humanizing the Horde, but she can't. They walk in silence finding nothing more to say to each other.

\---

With the retreat successfully called and the remaining rebels safe in the tree lines, Glimmer waits by the south passage beneath the castle for her mother. She gazes down the dark passageway, waving the torch two and fro. Too much time has passed and she’s starting to worry. She knows the Horde have already taken the castle and are sweeping through it as she waits. Is her mother all right? Is she on her way right now? 

Beside her, Bow, a long-term friend of the family and one of the secret leaders of the rebellion, stands in a cloak of dark material. He is eager to set off but his respect for the royal family of Bright Moon keeps his feet firmly on the ground beside the pool of water despite the itch that passes through his toes. 

“I understand that mothers and daughters have some uncanny bond I could never understand, Glimmer,” he says, “but if we don’t go now, the Horde will capture us halfway to the Singing River. Madame is waiting for us outside and her cloak only works if you're not looking for something fishy. We have to go.” 

Glimmer says, “She said she would meet us!” 

Bow grabs her by the shoulders, holding her firmly as she tries to push him away, squirming in his grip and shouting that her Mother will show. 

“Listen to me,” Bow says, and demands her attention with quick shake. He holds her gaze steady and still. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s too late. Your mother has probably been captured. And we will too if we don’t leave now.” 

Glimmer struggles in his grasp and his voice rises

“You are the only one the rebellion has left, Glimmer.” His frustration rings clear in his voice. “The rebellion dies with your capture. Is that what you want? To throw it all away right now?” 

Her eyes are wide and he holds her wrists even though her body is stiff and rigid. Then her expression twists and tears start to fall down her cheeks as she realizes the truth of his words. She lowers her head and nods and Bow wraps an arm around her. They take deep breathes and dive, swim down the drop as quickly as they can before it turns abruptly and leads out into the moat that surrounds the castle. On the surface they can see the small boat where Madame, the witch of the Whispering Woods waits. The boat is tied beneath the drawbridge and cloaked thinly with her magic. They break the surface, gasping for air and Madame pulls them onto the boat.

“Don't move. Don't breathe. You'll ruin the cloak.” Her voice is sharp with warning and she speaks through her teeth. On land above them, they can hear the Horde soldiers escorting prisoners from the castle across the drawbridge and out into the midday sun. 

As the little boat floats away under its weak protection, Glimmer can see the army her mother escorted bound and chained to a fit of applause from the waiting men. It takes all of her strength to force her eyes away as the boat, under the weak magic cloak of Madame, drifts away toward Singing River. 

\---

On the 23rd day of the Third Month, the Great Rebellion suffers a devastating blow as its pillar of strength, Bright Moon, is captured and its leader, Queen Angella, taken prisoner. 

\---

Hordak’s voice is deep and venomous. It matches his sallow appearance. The skin on his cheeks sag but he never did have meat to fill out his facial features. Adora has seen many of the others wince when he speaks to them and avert their eyes when in his presence. She has always felt their awkwardness in the pit of her stomach. She understands their concerns, how they’ve come to fear failure more than death because of the high standards Hordak holds them to and the terrible consequences when those standards are not met, but she has never actually felt it herself. She's not sure why. She has never considered failure a doable possibility and so has never thought of the consequences.

“Excellent work, Adora,” she hears him say in his empty throne room and she stares straight at him before dropping to one knee. A fist finds a place above her heart and her head bows graciously.

“Thank you, my liege,” she says and then returns to standing to find him watching her with his hollow eyes.

She never shies away from his voice or gaze, the same voice and gaze she’s heard since she was a baby. She is not afraid of it as the others are but she does not blame them for their fear. Adora is keenly aware how effective ruling with fear is. Hordak has taught her well that ruling with an iron fist keeps everyone below in check. Absolute loyalty is a must. That is a value that Hordak has instilled in her. 

“Queen Angella has been a thorn in my side for years now,” Hordak says, rubbing his chin with a weary hand. “The rebels are probably highly disorganized right now. Before they have a chance to reconvene, we must strike.” 

“We could target one of the villages easily. They won’t be able to defend it in the state they’re in.” 

Hordak’s lips curl into a cruel smirk and he sits back into his throne and taps the tips of his fingers against the top of his armrest. 

“No. A man's body can endure any pain as long as his spirit remains unbroken.” He makes his skeletal hand into a fist and lets it rest on the armrest. “And we want them broken.”

“The public execution of Queen Angella will let it be known the extent of your power, my Lord,” Adora says. 

Hordak waves his hand at the suggestion and shakes his head. 

“She’s too valuable to execute right now. I already have plans for our forlorn queen.” 

“What would you like me to do then?” 

Hordak casts his eyes her way, the very same eyes that seemed to disappear in the sockets of his skull. Amusement hardly ever graces his face but the expression he holds now comes alarmingly close. 

“You?” he asks and stands, bringing the dark heavy material of his cape around himself. “I have better plans for you.” He motions for her to follow him and they walk toward the back of the room to the large double doors that lead to his private chamber. “There is something I need you to retrieve.”

“Retrieve?” Adora asks as she follows him through the doors into the chamber. 

Past the doors stands Shadow Weaver, standing next to a full-length mirror mounted on the wall. She is tall and thin and tries to keep her face hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. Despite her efforts, her chin is still visible and the ends of the scars can still be seen. Everyone in the Horde knows of Shadow Weaver, but few actually set eyes upon her. She keeps to herself in this room with her spells and potions, venturing out only for reasons she shares with no one. She wears one glove on her left hand, presumably to hide more scars. Adora is used to her eccentrics. After all, Shadow Weaver is the one who saw to her proper education as a child. 

“Does the Mirror of Worlds still work?” Hordak asks her coming to stand next to her. He too gazes at his reflection in the mirror. Adora is surprised that Shadow Weaver has even allowed the mirror into her domain. When the reminder of one’s biggest shame is branded on one’s face, the mirror quickly becomes a mortal enemy. 

“Yes, Hordak. Even after twenty years of nonuse.” She nods, letting the fingertips of her right hand brush along the intricate carvings of the wooden frame. 

“Excellent.” Hordak nods and his eyes become slits as he smiles. He extends a hand toward Adora, palm up. “Come, Adora” 

She comes to their side and he positions her in front of him, laying his bony fingers on her shoulders. 

“Look into the mirror, Adora.” Shadow Weaver’s voice comes out in hushed, raspy whispers. She has never been one to raise it too high. 

Adora sees her reflection in the smooth glass and Hordak, looking more sallow than ever, stands behind her. To her left is Shadow Weaver and she makes sure not to pay attention to the scars. If she is supposed to see something special in the mirror, she does not see it. 

“This mirror will serve as a bridge between places,” Shadow Weaver says holding on the “s” in a serpentine way. “All you have to do is declare the location you wish to see and the mirror will reveal it to you. You’ll be able to walk right through it to the other side.”

“Eternia.” Hordak’s authoritative voice fills the expanse of the chamber and the mirror begins to fog, blurring their reflections. When it clears she sees a bright room decorated with warm orange and red throw rugs and curtains. “This is Eternia, Adora. It’s a whole other world. The only real difference between it and Etheria, however, is that Eternia has a troublesome hero. He-Man.” 

Adora turns to look at the both of them. This is almost too incredulous to believe. She has never had cause to doubt them before so she gives a nod and holds out a hand to the mirror, feels the surface nearly give way to her fingertips.

“What is it I am to do?” she asks.

“He-Man carries a powerful sword. I want that sword,” Hordak tells her. “Tomorrow, you're going to cross over to Eternia and retrieve it.”

She brings her heels together and rests her fist on her left shoulder, stoops her head forward respectfully. “I understand.” 

Hordak acknowledges her with a nod and they walk out of the chamber back into the throne room where he takes a seat on his throne. It’s not often that he will dip his head backwards as he does now to rest it against the back of the throne. It is a luxury only allowed to Shadow Weaver and herself, the sight of Hordak with his eyes closed and his body full of exhaustion.

“You’re proving yourself well, Adora,” he says. 

She bows again and then exits the room, pulling the heavy doors shut behind her. Hordak has a system of rewards and punishments for his officers. It’s a straightforward system where everyone knows what is expected of them and. Compliments are few and far between. She catches her light mood and frowns, her footsteps gaining speed in the stone hallway. She reprimands herself for being pleased and runs through rules in her head. The battlefield is not a place for mercy or forgiveness. Break the spirit before you break the man. Never celebrate premature victories.

She pauses at a window and stares out across the expanse of the Fright Zone. As its namesakes suggests, it is a frightening place to behold with the sinister looking trees that curl around the dark mist and spear the darkened sky and the creatures that lurk in their thickness. She thinks about Eternia. He had said that it is a completely different world. If this is true, and she has no reason to not believe this, how does Hordak know of it anyway? How is this sword important? Adora lifts her gaze skyward and squints, wondering where the moon is hiding this night. 

“You won't find it. We’re in the middle of a lunar eclipse.” 

She recognizes the voice behind her and glances over her shoulder to see Force Lt. Catra approaching, her footsteps light and soundless unlike Adora’s own heavy ones. Returning to the sky, Adora makes a face.

“I know,” she says. 

Catra comes to stand beside her and lifts a hand to point. “There. You can see the ridge of the moon peeking out of the shadow of the sun now.” 

Adora sets her jaw and steps away from the window to continue down the corridor. “I don’t care about the moon.” 

She can’t hear her footsteps but she knows that Catra follows her as she makes her way to the residential area of the castle. The familiar controlled laughter of the other woman is sharp in her ears and she tries to ignore it. 

“You look terribly morose for someone who just accomplished a dazzling victory over the pesky rebels. Hordak is pleased, isn’t he?” 

Adora pauses and looks at her. “Lord Hordak,” she reminds before pushing her door open and stepping into her room.

“Yes, Lord Hordak, indeed.” Catra leans on the doorframe with her arms crossed and smirks. “So, that’s it? You cause the greatest triumph over the rebellion to date, leaving them in a weakened state of panic just ready for the crushing and you’re going to bed?” 

“Is there a problem with that?”

Catra stands from the doorframe with a shake of her head. “I just thought this was something worth celebrating is all.” 

Adora rolls her eyes. “The last time I celebrated with you, we ended up in a suspicious room in some tavern in an unidentified village with no memories of how we got there.” 

“We were pretty young and foolish then.” The other woman smiles at the memory. “We were celebrating our promotions from infantry, if I remember correctly. Of course, had I known you’re practically Lord Hordak’s daughter then, I wouldn’t have made you drink that much.”

Adora throws her hands up in the air and spins around to enter the room, leaving the door unattended for Catra to follow her if she wishes. “Catra, you know why I didn't tell you. Let it go already.”

“You’re overly sensitive for a captain, Captain” Catra smirks and walks into the room, closing the door behind her. “You might want to work on unwinding a little.”

“All right. Fine. I have a mission tomorrow and may not see you for a while, anyway,” Adora says with a groan. “But if I wake up with amnesia in some unknown tavern again, it’s war between us.”

Catra almost purrs. “Adora, dear. You as my mortal enemy sounds very exciting, indeed.”

\---

There is a list of things Glimmer thought she would never do in her lifetime. Standing in front of a bunch of frightened people huddling together in the middle of the Whispering Woods to reassure them of their cause is right at the top of that list. Not many know that the woods really do whisper for real and those who know often are not accustomed to it. She’s not used to hearing soft observations about the things she is doing coming from the trees around her or the soft giggles at things she neither heard nor saw and she stands quiet and still for a long moment listening to the running commentary.

“Shh, Glimmer speaks,” she hears the woods whisper. “She speaks.” 

The people quiet themselves and give her their attention. Glimmer stands before them and sees their loss on their faces, feels their fear, unseen but felt in the way her muscles ripple slightly beneath her clothes. She isn’t prepared for those faces, the desperation she sees in them, the way they look to her for guidance, leadership, comfort; all the things they used to look for in her mother. She clears her throat and feels like crying but remembers that her mother had never shed tears in front of the people. 

She says, “We have suffered gravely today.” 

Her voice is neither loud nor confident and she hates the way it sounds like it will break. She swallows the painful bulge in her throat and lifts her head higher, forces her shoulders to relax. Then she starts again. 

“We have suffered gravely today.” She speaks firmer now, stronger. “We mourn the lives lost today at Bright Moon and we thank them for their courage. They will not be forgotten.” 

She pauses, unsure what to say now and she looks behind her at Bow and Madame who merely nod and encourage her to keep speaking. Glimmer spans the audience gathered in the small thicket, sees the mothers and the children. 

“We will not forget the sacrifice of good men and women.” She continues. “It’s because of them that we cannot let this set back defeat us. Remember what they fought for, what we fight for. The Horde has invaded Etheria and enslave our brothers and sisters. We fight for the freedom from this tyranny so that our planet can return to a time of peace, so that our children will know a time without the Horde even if we, ourselves, are beginning to forget. This is the dream my mother believed in. This is the cause that we fight for; that our friends have died for on this day.”

Even the whispering of the woods is silent as she momentarily pauses, looks at as many faces as she can. She sees some nodding among the crowd. 

“We cannot forget this,” she says. “We will not forget.” 

She doesn’t know what the peasants say when they start speaking or the commentary of the whispers. Glimmer only turns to walk away fearing that her knees will give way and she’ll collapse in front of everyone if she doesn’t get away. Bow escorts her to a tent pitched a short distance away and stands guard. 

Above, the lunar eclipse is nearly finished, a small arc only missing from the brilliant moon. This is normally a celebration for Bright Moon, a festival in honor of the magic of Queen Angella strengthened by the moon. It’s normally a day of humility and gratitude. For the first time since escaping Bright Moon, Glimmer curls into herself on a bed of pelts and weeps. Bow eases himself to the ground outside and leans against the support pole, picking at grass and listening.

“How is the dear doing?” Madame asks handing him a bowl of warm soup. 

“She’s mourning, Madame,” Bow says. “Just like everyone else.”

 

Continued…

Next: Lessons on Dignity. It's just a quick hop skip to Eternia...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this chapter and the next were written back in 2003!
> 
> I posted this story a long ass time ago on fanfiction.net under the screen name Decobray. With the renewal interest in the show, I figured why not reshare? I've left the writing untouched, because it's neat to see how I've evolved, or in some cases plateaued?


	3. Lessons on Dignity

**Etheria**

Catra lifts a hand to shield her eyes and curls her lip at the sun. The village she is in now is still standing. This is the first time she has been in a village this long without razing it to the ground. It makes her a little restless, almost like ignoring the basic training drilled in her since childhood. She brings her gaze to the scaffold erected ten feet off the ground in the center of the empty villagers. Everyone has run or hide inside their homes and shops. 

She stands on a platform long ago erected in the center of town for such demonstrations and the queen of Bright Moon, Angella, kneels at her feet, bound and secured to the floor. Her white wings are folded back and tied together. 

Her second-in-command for this operation, Scorpia, comes to stand at her side. She is a wry looking woman with a slim physique and dirt colored hair tied back and held in place by a metal helmet. Her military prowess is ignorable, but her knowledge of acids and venom is unmatched by none in the Horde, except for maybe Shadow Weaver. 

“I think we’ve waited long enough,” Catra says. “Word should be well on its way to the rebels if it hasn’t reached them already.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Scorpia salutes her and then moves back to where their vehicles are parked. 

Catra shades her eyes and peers at the edge of town toward the tree line, the empty road, the range of hills a hundred yards away, anywhere the rebels could come barging in to save one of their own. If they were smart, they would come from both hills and trees in a two sweep attack without letting themselves be surrounded. 

Angella holds her head high and doesn’t look at her, keeping her gaze forward and still. Her light hair is nearly as long as she is tall and it's tied back at several places, all of it pushed over one shoulder. It used to be combed and neat, but now several strands escape and scrape along her strong cheek bones. Catra considers her a moment. The dignity she sees in her still is admirable, she has to admit, but what else would one expect from a queen?

“I wonder how your rebels will attack,” she says to Angella, returning her gaze to the hills. “Do you think they'll try an arrow to my heart? Scorpia's? They could take out two officers easily, but you'll be dead before they cover the distance to reach you. Let's hope they don't do that.”

Angella doesn't respond. It makes Catra smile. Well. At least the rebel queen is smart. 

“Do you think they’ll actually come?” Scorpia asks. 

“They’ll come. They're lost without her.” Catra nods. She turns her attention to Angella once more. “We've waited long enough. Let's see if we can't tempt them out.”

“All you rebels out there watching,” she says in a voice that is loud and crisp on the afternoon air. “Here is your queen. Come take her if you can.” 

She leans over and shoves Angella's shoulders forward, then pulls her hair from her shoulder, almost delicately gathering all the loose strands in one fist and admires it for a moment. 

“How long have you let this grow, your highness?” she asks. “Years, I imagine. For what purpose, I wonder? It doesn't seem practical, all this hair, does it Scorpia? Do you think it makes sense?” 

“If she were pampered royalty like any other maybe,” Scorpia answers. “But she's not.” 

“Precisely. She's not.” Catra pulls a knife from her boot. “Does it bother you? It bothers me.”

“I'm not sure I have an opinion, Lt.” Scorpia shrugs. “It's just hair.”

“Yes.” Catra nods. “Lovingly cared for, meticulously kept hair.” 

She begins to saw at the thick locks in her hand. Chunk after chunk of soft, silky hair comes free until all of it is severed. Then she crouches and sets the long length still tied together before her where she can see it. Something falls from Angella’s cheeks and stains the wooden platform. Catra will never understand the meaning of that tear or why it fell. She only knows that she was right. Whatever the reason is, the hair was important. 

Pretty soon, curious faces are peeking through windows and cracked doors. Still crouching behind her, Catra watches the queen of Bright Moon's silent tears a little intrigued. She displays her hand to Scorpia

“I need your venom.”

A clear vial in placed in her palm and she looks at Angella, toward the empty hills, and then back again. She uncaps the vial and dips her knife in the clear liquid. There are no orders to kill Angella. All she wants to do is make her hurt, enough that she makes a sound loud enough. She wants the young princess to hear her mother's voice. 

-

Adora stares into the Mirror of Worlds as Shadow Weaver fiddles with a few items on a table behind her. In the mirror, she can see the woman grinding a few plants in a stone bowl. The room is decorated with bowls filled with mixtures and books filled with spells, history, maps, and manuals. Its dark and cold, but Adora is used to the temperature. This is where she studied as a child, where she learned about Etheria and the Horde and the geography of the land. She had to get used to the cold. It never gets warmer than this in the Fright Zone. It’s almost as if the rays of Etheria’s sun cannot penetrate the mists that float about this place. Magic has all kinds of uses, Adora knows, and she understands not to question the magic that keeps the sun out. 

“Are you ready, Adora?” Shadow Weaver asks in that raspy voice of hers. “Declare the place you wish to go. Whatever mirror you walk out of will have to be the same one you use to get back.” 

Adora nods to herself and turns around. Displayed on another table against the far wall are her weapons and she busies herself arming herself. A sword in a scabbard across her back, a dagger in her boot, a hand blaster on her thigh. 

“This sword that Lord Hordak wants,” she says. “What’s so special about it?” 

“Lord Hordak has known about this other world since before you were born, Adora.” Shadow Weavers pauses for a moment and is silent. She sets the bowl down and leans on the table. “The sword you seek is made of Eternian ore, much stronger than the mineral found here on Etheria, and ten times as rare.”

“How will I know who this He-Man is, or even recognize this sword?”

“Believe me, Adora. You'll recognize them both the moment you see them.” Hordak’s poison voice rings clearly as he steps into the room, his cape dramatically floating on the updraft. It forces both Shadow Weaver and Adora to look his way before they both bow before him, Adora dropping to her knee as usual. 

“I thought to allay her curiosity a bit, my Lord,” Shadow Weaver immediately rasps, almost frightened.

“I heard most of it,” Hordak tells her curtly, and then draws Adora to the mirror against the wall. “When you find He-Man and take his sword, I want you to kill him and return as soon as possible. Do not linger in that world. Do not listen to anyone. Do you understand?” 

“Of course, my lord.” Adora nods and bows her head.

Armed now, she gazes at her reflection in the mirror and calls out her intended destination. Her reflection fogs and blurs and then swirls until the room she saw the night before comes into vision. Without a look back, she lifts a foot and steps through the portal between the frames. The surface of the mirror distorts like liquid. Adora is gone before the ripples settle. 

“Risking your Lord’s anger, I feel I must say this.” Shadow Weaver finally stops grinding and sets the bowl down on the table. “I still do not think that she is ready for this journey.”

“Time is not our ally, Shadow Weaver,” Hordak says, drawing himself up. “The Horde will need a worthy heir soon.” 

“I don’t believe she would ever betray you, My Lord.” Shadow Weaver frowns and reaches for the bowls of herbs. 

His hand lashes out like a viper striking a foe and he grabs her gloved left hand and pulls it up at painful angle, causing her to let out a sharp yelp before a rush of apologies fill the air around them. Hordak leans forward to gaze into her ruined face. When he speaks, it’s through his teeth, each symbol callous and cold. 

“That’s exactly what your master thought of you before you crushed him beneath an avalanche of boulders.”

Shadow Weaver tries to look away, using her other hand to draw her hood closer around her face and bringing her chin down to keep the light from her skin. In the mirror, Hordak looks paler than usual and he has lost muscle mass since the last time he has gazed upon his own image. He tosses her hand away and marches from the room, away from the shriveling image of himself.

-

**Eternia**

Adora’s first impression of Eternia is that it’s warm. And bright. She shields her eyes and stands still until her eyes adjust to it. The room she finds herself in has a window to the right where sunlight is streaming in, making visible the particles of dust floating in the air. The carpet beneath her boots is the same red and orange she saw in the mirror back in the Fright Zone. This place is made of smooth, pale stone and she places her hand on the wall to feel it. 

In a moment, she’s ready to get back to her mission and slips to the wall by the door. The corridor outside is quiet but she holds her breath and listens carefully just to make sure. Nothing. She peeks her head out quickly and looks both ways down the empty hallways. Then she picks a direction and bolts down the hall. The palace hallways are empty and she doesn’t understand why. This place should be crawling with people going about their daily business. Twenty minutes in and coming to the end of her third stairway, Adora wonders why she hasn’t come across anyone yet. 

The entire tower suddenly shakes with a loud explosion somewhere above her Adora hears footsteps pounding hard against the stone. She ducks inside a door and waits until a woman with hair the color of rust races by and she gives chase. It's time to get some answers.

She shouts to get her attention and when the woman turns around, she slams a fist into her abdomen, removes the dagger from her boot and sets it so hard against the woman’s throat, the edge is stained red with a trickle of blood. 

The woman curses and Adora tightens her grip on her. 

“Don’t.” She warns, spitting the words out through her teeth. “I don't take prisoners, so it wouldn’t hurt me one bit to slit your throat right now.”

“Who the hell are you?” The woman demands, straining beneath Adora’s death grip.

“I’m looking for a He-Man. I was told I could find him here.” 

There’s another explosion somewhere else in the castle and the tower rattles slightly, small bits of dust shaking loose from the stones above. 

“Like I would know how to find him. He always finds us.” The woman laughs and slams an elbow against Adora’s abdomen and tries to kick her away, but the blow only makes Adora hold on tighter. “I thought some of you would have known that at least. You can tell Skeletor to-.”

Adora shoves the knife into her arm and the woman cringes when she brings the blade back to her neck. “I don’t know nor care who this Skeletor is. All I need is He-Man.” 

The ground rumbles and a sound not unlike distant thunder echoes along the stretch of sky above them. Adora knows the sound of battle well enough to recognize it any day and she wonders what kind of war has infected this planet. From one war-torn planet to another, she thinks. The universe has no creativity at all. 

She shoves the woman into a winding stairwell and checks her surroundings before pushing her forward again. Behind them, Adora hears the hammer of a gun pulled back and the clear and crisp chock of a full chamber preparing to fire. 

“Kindly unhand my daughter, stranger. I am not afraid to fire.” 

Adora turns around with the woman and comes face to face with a rough-looking man in his fifties and a younger man with hair the color of her own. Over his peppered hair, the old man wears a helmet that matches the hunter green and orange of his uniform. Three black stripes are sewn on his breast pocket with a gold star beneath them and the loaded gun in his hands is a double-handed blaster. This man has plenty battle experience. She can tell by the manner in which he holds the blaster, almost casually. The younger man lifts his hands and glances from Adora to her prisoner and back again.

“I would do as my friend says,” he says. 

“It’s all right, Adam,” the old man says. “I think she understands fine enough.”

Adora narrows her eyes slightly and then brings her prisoner closer to her, lining up their vital organs. She ducks her head behind the mass of auburn hair and peeks out. The man grips his blaster and bends his knees, bracing the back of blaster against his hip to catch the recoil. She nods. The design is strange but there is no mistaking a hand canon when she sees one. 

She says, “Fire away, soldier, and give me and your daughter matching two-inch holes.”

Her prisoner lets out a small grin. “Don’t worry about me, just shoot-.“

Adora pulls the blade a little harder into her skin and the woman instinctively sucks in her breath and holds it, the muscles of her neck flexing and straining.

The young man called Adam takes a step forward and Adora casts her gaze in his direction. “No no,” she says. “Don’t move. Just tell me where I can find this He-Man and you can have your girlfriend back.” 

“You ask something impossible.” The old man sets his stare and says, “No one knows who he is or how to find him.”

Adora and the old man stare at each other for a moment, before he bows his head just slightly, almost unnoticeable. She pulls the blade a bit tighter until the small trickle of blood slipping down her prisoner’s throat thickens. It's the young man who speaks.

“South of this castle is a forest that breaks to a mountain range.”

“Adam!” the woman shouts at him, but her father shushes her loudly, saying her name, Teela, so loud his voice reverberates through the empty hall. Teela is so stunned that the tension in her muscles loosens for a moment. 

Adam continues.

“It’s cloaked by magic and may be difficult to find, but there is a narrow passageway through those mountains. Beyond it, there lies Castle Grayskull where the Sorceress resides. She is the only one who can answer your question.” 

Adora watches him, trying to gauge the honesty in his voice. From Teela’s reaction and by the way her father's jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth, she’s inclined to believe. 

“But don’t worry too much,” Adam tells her. “He-Man will find you before you get there.”

“Let him come, then.” 

In a quick motion, she twirls the blade in her hand and jams it into Teela’s thigh before shoving her toward the two men. Then she grabs a pistol from a strap on her thigh and fires a few rounds to make them grab Teela and dodge. It's a cheap move to buy her enough time to get away, but it won't keep them for long. She jumps out of the first window she sees toward the canopy of trees, grabs a branch and swings safely to the ground. 

No mercy to the enemy, she keeps thinking, as she orientates herself east and takes off running. No mercy to the enemy. Should have killed them. Should have killed them. It’s too late to change things now. 

-

**Etheria**

It was really quite pitiful. The rebels couldn't even wait until the fifth small drag of her venomed dagger across Angella's bare skin. She almost shakes her head. How stupid of them, she thinks, attacking from the very place she thought they would. 

The fourth and fifth squadrons fan out and herd the rebels toward the mouth of the village where the armored vehicles await to fire. She can see the anger in the rebel’s faces and their shots are poorly aimed. She rolls her eyes. Disgusting, really. No discipline at all. Nothing but blind rage. Her heart feels a bit itchy, the closest thing to sympathy she can feel for them.

Bullets whiz by her ears and she curses. They’ll shoot their own queen if they aren’t more careful. When Scorpia unlatches Angella from the ground, Catra pulls her to her feet and calls Grizzlor.

“Your rebels aren’t exactly known for their marksmanship, are they?” she asks Angella

Angella glares at her. “We don’t judge a man’s worth by his aim.”

“And that’s one of the reasons why you’re losing this war.” Catra pushes her over the edge of the platform. “Get her out of her, Grizzlor.”

It’s difficult to tell if Grizzlor is a beast-like man or a man-like beast. He is covered in thick fur and his nose is flat and wide like a snout not given enough time to grow. His ears rest back against his mane because he was never one for loud noises. His large hands catch Angella and he cradles her close to his chest, covering her head and her vital organs. Blood splatters up from his fur and into the air as bullets strike his muscle. He carries away to a Horde Craweler.

Catra hops off the platform and pulls her matching curved daggers from her sides. As another wave of rebels come from the same hill, she wonders if she can see a little girl named Glimmer playing soldier.

-

**Eternia**

Adora makes it to the edge of the woods before a boulder smashes against a tree to her right. She crouches low to the ground and uses the foliage to cover herself as she creeps around the trunk of tree. 

“Heard you were looking for me,” she hears a man say. His voice is deep and seems to echo around her, uncannily, inhumanely, and it makes it difficult to pinpoint his precise position. What kind of magic is about, she wonders, easing her fingers to the pistol strapped to her thigh.

“You must be this He-Man I’ve heard so much about,” she says and then rolls out of reach of the debris from another boulder when it explodes against another tree.

“Come out and fight like a man,” he says, chuckling almost, amused at his own joke. 

She glances around and still sees no one, then calls back, “I entreat you to do the same.”

“Well, if you insist.”

From behind some boulders, a man steps into view. His skin is bronzed from the sun and his hair is as light as hers. He looks like a barbarian in a loin cloth. Ridiculous. Across his chest is a piece of metal engraved with a crest hat also acts as a strap for the sword whose hilt she can see rising vertically from his shoulders. 

She waits until her hands are steady, aims, and then fires. The speed with which he draws his sword and deflects the bullet is astounding, and he lowers the tip toward the ground, holding it at such an angle for her to see it clearly. It’s a beautiful blade with a hilt design that is more complex and detailed than anything she's seen on Eternia.

“That was cowardly,” he says, voice still light with mirth. “Have some dignity and fight me face to face.” 

“Dignity?” she asks, laughing as she brushes some leaves from her face and steps out into the open, dangling the pistol by her thigh. “I don’t think I should take a lesson on dignity from a nearly naked man.”

He lets out a crooked smirk. “What do you want from me, stranger.” 

“Nothing. Not from you, ” she says. “Just the sword.” 

“So you don't know then. I'm the only one who can wield this sword,” he tells her and hops down from the rocks. He-man forces the blade vertical in the ground. “You're welcome to try though.” 

He backs away holding his hands in the air. The barrel of her pistol is aimed once more for his head and she takes a cautious step forward. She doesn't trust this. It's too easy. She watches him cautiously as she takes step after precise step toward the sword he had abandoned between them. Her right hand steadies the pistol while the fingers angle carefully toward the hilt.

“That sword is enchanted,” he tells her when she hesitates momentarily. “It phases out of this plane when someone else tries to hold it.”

Adora looks at him for only a moment before her fingers close around a tangible hilt and she pulls the sword from the ground. 

When the blade catches the sunlight, an energy rushes through her, down the length of her arms into her chest where her heart pumps it through her veins. It startles and distracts her long enough for him to cover the distance between them, swinging his empty scabbard hard toward her head. Adora stumbles backward to avoid the hit and her pistol fires, missing him and rattling some birds. A few feathers float down around them as she drops the pistol and draws back, bringing the sword in a perfect arc back around to intercept his next blow.

He grabs hold of one of her wrists and then slams a fist hard into her stomach. Adora doubles over and staggers but does not fall. It takes another sharp blow to her right temple to make everything go black as she passes out.

 

Continued…

 

Next: Memories and the Aftermath of Battle. Sometimes, memories are more painful than the wounds we bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This had originally been written as a reimagining of Secret of the Sword, so other characters and elements needed to be set up before Adora becomes She-Ra and switches sides. Please bear with me!
> 
> I had a specific design in mind for Catra's twin dangers, her fangs. I'll see if I can find my sketches or sketch a new one. Something.


	4. Memories and the Aftermath of Battle

Once, when she was still quite little, Adora remembers standing just outside the fortress, watching as Hordak unlocked an iron cage and stepped inside, holding a piece of raw meat in his hand. Inside the cage was a small gargoyle-like creature, a juvenile. It arched its back, hissed, and shrank from Hordak. It lashed out at his calf, sinking teeth into muscle. He kicked its snout with his heel just hard enough to scare and it backed away, flattening itself against the ground. Blood trickled from his leg but Hordak ignored it and looked over his shoulder to make sure she was still watching. 

“This is how you conquer, Adora,” he said and turned his gaze back to the creature below him. “Show no fear and no pain. Show no weakness and prove that you’re stronger. You must break them first.” 

With the bleeding leg, Hordak scooped the creature into the center of the cage and blocked its every attempt to return. 

“Let them think no place but by your side is safe.” He sat down in the cage against the bars casually and dropped the meat by his side. “It's been three days since Imp's last meal. His strength is beginning to wane.” 

Imp lowered his head slightly and curled into himself, trying to appear as small as possible. He inched forward, tentatively, and licked the wound on Hordak’s leg, watching carefully, before venturing to his side to eat. 

“People respond to the fear strength instills in them,” Hordak said. “Be stronger than they are. Be more patient to cultivate that fear. That’s how you conquer. That’s how you attain power.” 

“When do I know I’m stronger, though?” she asked him, gripping the bars of the cage. 

“You won't know until you've been broken too,” he said. 

Hordak let Imp eat half of the meat as long as he remained by his side. Then he took the other half with him when he left. The day after that, Adora went south for training and he told her to return his finest soldier. She did become a fine soldier after the years of brutal training, and she rose steadily up the ranks with Catra right behind her. 

Her small squadron was nearly indestructible. They worked like an efficient team, like extensions of each other. She will never again experience that fluidity of a team like this. It all ended when they were cornered in a gorge and a canon ripped through them.

-

****

****

Eternia

A pounding pain. That’s what Adora feels when she drifts back into consciousness. Next is the warmth of the blanket that covers her and the heat from a fire she can hear cackling somewhere near her. She sees flames dancing about on a bed of logs that showed no sign of burning. Enchanted logs. Figures. Across from the fire, she sees a woman, dressed in light robes of white or cream with blue accents running down the length of it. She is old enough to be Adora’s mother, but there is an unmistakable grace about her that can only come from the weight of knowledge she is too young to know. Adora tries to sit up but her body doesn't respond. 

“You’re paralyzed for the time being, Force Captain Adora,” the woman says, weaving dried palm leaves into a small pouch. “You suffered some broken ribs, I’m afraid. He-Men sometimes forgets his strength when he panics.” 

“Who are you and where am I?” Adora asks, straining her neck to keep her head up.

“Don’t look at the Sorceress like that. Show some respect,” she hears and sees He-Man round the small fire and take a seat on a log beside her. “You surprised me, grabbing my sword like that. It's only tangible in my hands. Someone else's should pass right through it. You shouldn't have been able to hold it.”

“Yes.” The Sorceress nods her head absently. “And yet, Adora had.”

“How do you know my name?” Adora demands. “My rank?” 

It's only a quick glance, really, a small flick of the eye, but Adora can recognize the regret and the pity on the Sorceress' face. It makes the blood in her veins boil, but she takes in a breath and calms herself.

“What else do you know?” she asks. 

The Sorceress merely stares at her. With an upward motion of her hand, the fire springs back to life, blazing even more than before. Adora watches as a phalanx of flame soldiers comes into focus and marches over the logs. She recognizes herself in the flame woman who leads them. They come across a savage battle where, one by one, everyone who comes across the phalanx falls. Adora sees the fireball that flies toward the marching squadron and plow into them. The flame image reforms, herself, Catra, and only one other sitting in a flame cave, waiting to die.

“Enough,” Adora says. “Do you think I’ll shrivel up and stop fighting just because of a few dead comrades?”

“No,” the Sorceress says. “I know you will not.”

“Then what do you plan to prove?” Adora shouts this and her voice echoes in the empty caverns. She hates that her body remains so still while her anger boils over inside of her, hates that the Sorceress watches her still with that ever-so-noticeable glint of sympathy. 

“You are not quite as ruthless as you pretend to be, Adora,” the Sorceress says. “As is expected from your lineage, I’m sure.” 

Adora narrows her eyes. “I have no lineage.” 

He-Man hushes her with a finger and turns back to the Sorceress as she makes her way across the cavern and Adora bites the annoyance lingering on her sharp tongue. 

When the Sorceress returns, she is carrying a sword in a leather scabbard. The sword is slightly smaller than the one Adora came to steal but of the same design and with a blue-gray gem the size of her palm embedded on the side. Adora notices the surprise on He-Man’s face as the Sorceress draws near, displaying it for her to see. When she’s within five feet, the gem on the sword reacts and glows brightly, a swirl of color swimming inside the stone as the entire cavern is bathed in a light so warm and so full of immeasurable hope. 

The Sorceress nods her head and extends the sword to Adora. The gem shimmers once more and then disappears. It appears again on the inside of her right wrist brace, gives one last gleam, before a shield of metal closes over it. 

“What just happened?” Adora asks looking at the two others for answers.

“The sword just chose you as its wielder,” He-Man says, standing to gaze down at her as if seeing her for the first time. “That means that you’re from the line of Randor and that we are somehow related.” 

-

****

****

Etheria

Bow knows the one thing the Rebellion lacks right now is a good military commander. On the field during the failed attempt to rescue Queen Angella, he saw how disorganized they were, how Glimmer, who couldn’t stand to hear her mother's pain, had sounded the call for attack prematurely. They ride back to Whispering Woods weary and worn with just a handful of their men, taking with them only the wounded who could be saved.

He played soft music and sang a wordless song that Madam broadcasted with her magic so all the dying men could hear. It was the only comfort he could offer them before abandoning them on that field. 

“Glimmer,” he says and then adds, “Your Highness. Perhaps, now on...”

“No.” Glimmer rides atop her steed with her back straight, but her hands that grip the reins quiver ever so slightly. “Don’t ask me to stay behind and wait, Bow.” 

Her stubbornness has always been one of her endearing qualities, but right now, he has little patience to humor it, so, he says his next words straightforward and without tact.

“It was a poorly planned battle strategy.” 

She refuses to look at him. “It was a good plan.” 

With a sigh, he says, “You were blinded by emotion and you had us attack from one direction. They flanked us from the left and the right and drove us into a pocket. We were sheep to their wolves, Glimmer. A lot of good fighters died today.” 

Her expression is stern and cold and her lips are pulled into a thin line. He sees them tremble, sees her eyebrows furrow. 

“I can fight.” The words rush from her mouth and then she swallows them and lowers her head a bit. When she offers them again, they’re noticeably less confident and sure. “I can fight.” 

He brings his horse up beside hers and reaches over to pat her tight fist that grips the reigns so tightly and says in a low and smooth voice, “I know you can.” 

They ride in silence for a moment and the sun is setting behind the trees that surround them, the sky above them is darkening with each foot their horses cover. Glimmer pulls her horse ahead of his so he can’t see her face.

“What would my mother have done?” she asks, softly.

He flexes the muscles of his jaw and says, “She would have waited until Catra grew bored, divided the soldiers, and put the majority of them as escorts to get our toughest fighter to that platform as quickly as possible. Lives will always be lost, Glimmer. You have to make sure they’re lost for a good reason.” 

Glimmer offers him only a nod of her head before riding on. 

-

****

****

Beast Island

Years ago, when Glimmer was still a girl, Angella had watched her husband, Micah, throw a few robes in a traveling sack, then straighten up to ponder what he was doing. The image of his back like this, of his broad shoulders beneath the sharp suit of royal navy, is one she had always liked, even in their youth. 

“Why must it be you, Micah? Your memory grows worse with each morning,” Angella had said. “I will make the journey. Forming alliances is my responsibility. Bright Moon is my kingdom.”

“It must be,” he told her softly. “The road is too dangerous to risk Bright Moon's only healthy ruler.”

Angella studied him carefully, taking in his mustache and beard too thick and unkempt for her liking. Preparation for his long voyage disguised as a beggar, he had said. His grin was lop-sided and boyish and his eyes were gentle and knowing. Kind Micah, who taught her how to love.

“What of Glimmer and me?” she asked him. “If you forget our faces?”

He pulled her into a hug and threaded his fingers through her hair. It was shoulder length then and she used to like pinning it up or braiding it to keep it from her eyes. Micah used to fuss at her whenever she cut it or he went too many days without seeing it down.

“Your hair, Angella. I loved it before you even knew of me,” he said. “Keep it long and unpinned for me. I would recognize it anywhere.”

Angella held his hand in her own. “Of course.”

That was the promise she had made, the reason her hair had trailed down the length of her back, why she suffered the length of time it took to keep it clean and untangled. So, Angella kept her hair long and ruled her kingdom while her husband traveled. Periodically, messengers would arrive with updates. Then, somewhere along the lines, the messengers stopped coming. In the eleven years that have passed since he left, she’s come to accept that she will never see him again, but she still could not cut her hair. It was too much a symbol of the small part of her that was holding on to hope. 

Micah taught her how to be kind. Without him, she's afraid she's forgetting how.

Her prison cell on Beast Island is cold and damp and soft moss gross along the walls and floors. Angella finds the moss almost comforting, a small sign of life in this dreary cell. She curls into herself and cradles her head in her hands, the slits from Catra's knife still burning with venom. From outside the barred window, she can hear a few monstrous howls from somewhere in the jungle overgrowth of Beast Island. 

-

Six stories above Angella’s cell, on a veranda that over looks the expansive jungle, Catra offers a half-empty bottle of rum to the moon and, with a wink and a grin, brings it bottle back to her lips and takes a sip. Even though it wasn’t a very impressive victory, it was still a victory, and she had always felt that victories should be celebrated.

Scorpia sits stiff in a chair, pretending that awful baying outside doesn’t chill her to the bone. Catra is unusually quiet. She is thinking about Adora, wondering how this secret mission of hers is fairing, and images of memories flash through her mind. The mud splattered privates they'd picked fights with together just because they could, the way Adora's eyes lit up with life in the face of any challenge, how she moved with a sword, controlled, precise, and elegant. 

The top buttons of her uniform are undone and she absentmindedly strokes a wide scar, a light-colored patch of flesh stretching across her chest beneath her collarbone.

“How did you get that scar, Lt?” Scorpia asks in a small bout of gathered bravery. 

Catra doesn’t even look at her, staring forward like the creeping mists of the isle held answers to her secret questions. 

“It was a canon,” she says, lightly. “A long time ago when I was just a corporal. Our squad retreated to a gorge in the Crimson Waste and the rebels open fired above us.” 

“Who gave a suicidal order like that?” Scorpia asks. She is no battle strategist but even she knows better.

“Back then, she was called Sergeant First Class Adora.” Catra retracts her fingers from the scar and settles her gaze on Scorpia now. “Don’t misunderstand, Scorpia. With half the rebel army on our asses, General Sunder was able to penetrate their defenses. It was worth sacrificing a few soldiers for.”

“Still,” Scorpia says. “How could she knowingly lead you to your death like that? Didn't she care about her men or about you at all?”

Catra evaluates her for a moment. Of course, she would ask something like that. Scorpia’s expertise was in high demand when she was recruited and she skipped infantry and became an officer straight out of basic training. She doesn’t quite know what it’s like to live and fight with a squad, to continue marching together despite the fatigue and the wounds, to keep each other alive when everything is trying to kill you. She doesn’t know that camaraderie, so, she doesn’t know what it feels like when most of them die in one single moment and leave you behind. 

“We aren't allowed to care, Scorpia. We aren't allowed to put anyone, even ourselves, above the Horde,” she tells her and takes another sip of rum. “Adora did as was expected of her. My job was to die if she deemed it necessary, as any good Hordian would do.” 

“But you're still here at least, Lt.” Scorpia frowns now. “You didn't die.”

Her naivety is normally trying of Catra’s patience, but tonight, for some unknown reason other than, perhaps, the mysterious mist of this island defusing undetected through her circulatory system, Catra finds it almost painful. 

“Just two of us, Scorpia, and that was just barely,” she says, handing Scorpia the rest of the rum when she stands to retire for the night. “Get some sleep. It’s back to the Fright Zone first thing in the morning.” 

She takes with her the memory of those few days she and Adora spent in that cave together. They had dragged Liam in the shade with them, but he had slipped into shock and passed the day after. Adora was relatively uninjured but the skin on Catra's chest had been ripped from her. It hurt like hell. She remembers Adora removing her uniform to press it against the fresh flesh, how the pressure burned and made her wince. 

“Finally got you to take off your shirt,” she'd said. 

If Adora hadn't flushed so red with anger at that before yelling at her, Catra probably wouldn't have remembered that joke at all. When she closes the door to her quarters behind her, she smirks and sets the bottle on a nearby table. That cave was the first time she'd seen Adora cry and she will always hate and love it for that.

-

****

****

Fright Zone

When he sleeps, Hordak does not necessarily dream. They are more like images of his past flashing in and out of focus and loosely sown together by a fragile chronology. This is how he remembers Eternia and its invading sunlight, the cursed line of Randor, the Sorceress’ prophecy, and above all else, the twins.

In his dreams, he remembers the Sorceress’ overwhelming presence, emanating so strongly that even Shadow Weaver could feel it vaguely in her tower. A powerful magical force, Shadow Weaver had said, something not of this world. It was whispering something, barely audible words in a language long dead, something about a savior coming from the line of Randor, a hero so powerful no one could stand in his way. 

Hordak remembers Shadow Weaver exhausting herself on the Mirror of Worlds. He remembers stepping into Eternia for the first time with Shadow Weaver and his second-in-command, Keldor, at his heels.

There were two babies asleep in the crib, remembers grabbing the child that Shadow Weaver pointed to and instructing Keldor to kill the other before escaping back into the Mirror of Worlds. It isn’t the result of a split second decision that he ended up with the girl. It was because Shadow Weaver had sensed something different about her, something her brother was lacking, a persistent and stubborn magical presence. 

Adora learned quickly that her new home was not the same she’d had. She adapted to the new people, the new food, the newfound cold and darkness, but the one thing she would not adapt to was a new name. She responded to no name sweetly given or threatened upon her and forced Shadow Weaver to comb the unintelligent mess of her baby brain to find her name. That was the only indication Hordak needed to know that she was capable of fighting him for something she deemed important, like an identity she intended to keep. 

It was this very fighting spirit that would give her the potential to become the greatest soldier and, simultaneously, the greatest traitor he will ever suffer to live.

 

Continued…

 

Next: I am She-Ra. Adora, Catra, and Grizzlor in the Northern Expanse and the First Ones in the Cavern of Fire below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an extra chapter to celebrate Turkey day.


	5. I Am She-Ra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adora learns of the awful consequence that comes with her entire existence. She can't accept it. She won't. She will not lose anyone again.

The moment Shadow Weaver announces Adora's return, Hordak calls her to the war room where he sits with his generals around a table. At his feet lies Imp, his skin the color of stone and his leathery bat wings folded nicely along the muscles of his back, running parallel with the ridge that runs the length of his spine. Imp’s head lifts momentarily and his ears perk up as he glances about, counts the number of legs beneath the table and then returns his head to his master’s foot. Hordak motions for Adora to enter and allows the debate to continue undisturbed.

Adora has entered the room in the middle of a heated discussion. With Bright Moon taken, the options seem almost limitless. Brigadier General, Balian, slams a fist on the surface of the table where an extensive map of Etheria is laid out flat before them. 

“That’s preposterous!” Balian says louder than is acceptable and his voice disturbs General Drake beside him. “We can’t possibly attack so many locations at the same time. Dividing the army like that is sheer lunacy!”

Drake throws his hands out into the air and then points his finger to specific points on the map, the remaining kingdoms of Etheria with any sort of political sway. 

“Before the rebels can stabilize after losing Bright Moon, we can be ambitious and try a sweep, force them where we want them. It will be like herding them into a corral of our making.” 

“We don’t have the manpower for what you're suggesting, general,” Adora says simply, gazing at the kingdoms remaining on the map. Everyone in the room pauses to look at her but she doesn't bother to return their glances. “But a sweep does seem the smartest route to pursue.” 

Balian holds her in a gaze of cold ice and his dusty blonde hair falls in his eyes. He is the youngest of Hordak's general, barely celebrating his second year since promotion, and he has never liked Adora. It's just as well. 

“Then tell us, Force Captain,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “What does a mere captain see here that none at this table do? Enlighten us.”

She levels him with a gaze as absent of emotion as his is full of judgment.

“Am I given permission to speak freely, general? As an equal while I enlighten you?” she asks him with a resolve she can tell he finds irritating. 

Balian only manages a nod and curl of his lip. Adora knows the other men in the room are quiet because they are observing her, but not for the same reasons Balian does. Their observation is one of evaluation, of her, which is the only reason none of them have reprimanded her for speaking out of turn. With permission, Adora steps closer to the table, lifts a stick, and repositions a few units on the field. 

“First, your information is outdated. The front moved ten miles west closer to the swamps, which will matter,” she says and then casts a finger north. “Simultaneously, take care of the lesser kingdoms no one hears news of nor care to, the Kingdom of Snows and the Valley of the Lost for example. That puts on three side of Meadowlands. Their only option would be to retreat toward the ruins of Mystacor, cutting them off from supplies.” 

Hordak watches Adora for a moment while his generals discuss her suggestion. She adapted well to him and the Fright Zone and neither wears her thoughts nor her emotions on her sleeve. The time she has been gone, however, is suspicious. 

When the noise in the room grates enough on his nerves, he lifts a hand to quiet them and says, “Dispatch four units to the North and six to the Western Expanse. Drake's idea may be complete lunacy, but it is one I am inclined to see played out. Regarding the Force Captain's mission, what has she to report?” 

 

Adora brought her heels together and her right fist to her heart, bowing her head. It is the first sign of proper behavior in the presence of commanding officers she has offered since she entered the room. She has never really cared much for rank and the chain of command, slightly concerning perhaps, but she has always afforded Hordak the proper respect and he has always found hers genuine.

“Regretfully, Lord Hordak, I was unable to fulfill my mission,” she says, her voice taking on impressive airs. “The sword is enchanted so that only he can wield it.” 

Adora’s downcast eyes glance to the right for just a moment but a moment is all Hordak needs to know that there is something she isn’t telling him. He flexes the muscles of his jaw and considers her carefully.

“I’m placing you and your squad on the envoy to the Kingdom of Snows,” Hordak says and he is aware Adora knows this is a punishment. He had given her a mission and she had failed it. 

-

In the middle of the night before departure for the North, Adora stares at the old rusted cage in the corner of the courtyard. She can still see Hordak standing inside it with a chunk of bleeding meat in his hands and the young Imp backed into the corner. How long had she been here, she wonders, in his palace before being sent for training? How long has been here in Etheria and how did she even get here?

Her hand comes to her right bracer and she rubs her thumb over a small raised lump on the inside. Back on Eternia, without warning, the sword withdrew into the gem and the gem nestled itself on the underside of her right bracer, gleamed with a colorful sheen before the sheet of metal closed shut on it. She hasn’t been able to open it since then. The Sorceress had called it the Sword Protection and had referred to his as the Sword of Power, twin blades created for specific purposes, though it seems not even He-Man knew what those purposes were.

Every part of her knows she should tell Hordak of everything she learned, even of twin blade to the one he sought that now rests somehow, magically, in the metal of this bracer. Just what is so special these swords anyway? Why can only those who sprung from King Randor's blood convince these weapons to stay tangible?

There is a soft grunt and a low growl behind her and she looks over her shoulder and lets out a small smile. Grizzlor hunches as low as he can to the ground, hunching massive shoulders, and creeps up to her, the stub of his once-tail wiggling ferociously. 

“Hey, Grizz,” she says, turning to pat the wide flat of his nose and he angles his head to let her. “Yeah, I'm back, bud.”

His eyes glow yellow in the night and his ears pin back flat. Fur on his shoulder has been shaved and a white bandage stands out stark against the brown fur. She inspects the bandage a moment when Catra sidles up beside him and leans against his hulking frame. She looks up at him and pats his forearm. 

“This guy was a mess without you,” she says. “I swear if he whined one more time, I would have conveniently lost him on Beast Island and called him a casualty of war.”

“We broke him of that dependency years ago. He's fine without me.” Adora stands on her toes and pats his furry cheek, giving it some firm scratches. “Didn't we, big guy?”

Catra spies her from the corner of her eye now and her lips curve upwards in a smile. 

“Still, for my sake as much as his, do me a favor and don't disappear like that again, hm?” she says, folding her arms across her chest and lowering her gaze to the ground. “Where'd you go anyway?” 

“Another world,” Adora tells her and her voice is once again distant as she absent-mindedly strokes Grizzlor's chin. “I was being held captive on another world.”

“You were what now?” 

Adora shoots her a look but still smirks and says, “Lord Hordak sent me to another world, a place called Eternia. They have a hero there too in love with his own muscles and too strong for his own good. Heroes. First, they break a rib or two they feel obligated to fix with sorcery and then they just let you go like nothing happened. Ridiculous.”

“So you like muscular heroes who literally sweep you off your feet?” Catra asks her. “How positively ordinary, Adora.”

“I see you're an expert, are you?” Adora asks her stepping from Grizzlor to look at her. “I can count on zero fingers the number of people who peaked your interest.” 

“Oh captain, my captain.” Catra's eye glints beneath the moonlight. “I'm too busy keeping you alive to worry about that. What's your excuse?”

Adora looks at her and says, without hesitation, “I suppose that means I'm too busy being in danger to worry about it.” 

The familiar sound of Catra's laugh almost warms Adora's heart and it takes her a little off guard. Since they'd met as children in the training camps, they had been almost glued to each other's sides. Adora knows a lot of it had to do with their similar goals, but most of it is Hordak's doing. 

He'd always told her personal attachments were the most dangerous thing to suffer and it was part of a commanding officer's duty to regularly trade out soldiers to discourage personal bonding. Still, since she was young, whenever Adora faced a new experience, a new rank, and a new unit, Catra was always at her side and Lord Hordak ignored it. She has never asked him about it for fear their special consideration ends and they are forced their separate ways.

Grizzlor sits down on his haunches, content to just be in their presence, and Adora smiles down at him and says, “Hey, Catra. Do you remember your family?”

“Very little. Images mostly. No faces.” Catra leans back against Grizzlor's shoulder and crosses on foot over the other. “I've long since come to terms with the fact that they were probably killed in a death camp if not on a battlefield.”

Adora only nods and says, “That what I thought about mine too.” 

Adora places her left hand over her right wrist and feels the raised bump of the large blue-gray gem beneath the thin layer of metal. 

The Sword of Protection had chosen her, those two on Eternia had said, that it was hibernating on her wrist until the moment she needed it. What is the point of an ultra powerful sword if it can’t be used? Adora had called them crazy, had demanded they release her, and had refused to listen to anything else until they did and so, for the two weeks she was there, they didn't talk at all. Part of her wonders if she'll regret leaving with unanswered questions.

“Force Captain Adora, you are dreadfully dull for your first night back,” Catra tells her with a look of boredom. “I cannot, in good conscience, allow this to continue.” 

The humor of before has already gone for Adora though and she comes beside Catra and leans on Grizzlor as well. “You know the reason we're being deployed to the North tomorrow is because I failed my mission on Eternia, right? I suspect we have a seventy percent survival rate, if even that. More like sixty if I'm being honest.”

“Yeah,” Catra says watching her, her voice dropping to low to match. “I thought that would be the only reason he’d send his precious Force Captain on a campaign like that.”

“The campaign was my idea.” 

“But sending you was his.” 

A small silence settles on their shoulders before Adora says, downcast eyes observing the wet dirt beneath her boot, “Don't die on my, Lieutenant.” 

Catra reaches over, sinks a slow painful punch to the meat of her shoulder and offers her a smile when she has her attention. 

“Couldn't even if I wanted to. Didn't you hear me? Too busy keeping you alive.” 

Adora smiles. “Fair enough.” 

-

Often through out the years, Hordak and Shadow Weaver would have short, private meetings regarding Adora in Shadow Weaver’s cold tower. Before, Hordak mostly questioned Adora’s capabilities, how sharp and quick her mind was, her reflexes, her demeanor when difficult things were presented. 

The truth that only Shadow Weaver knows is that Hordak was truly invested in Adora’s upbringing, keeping tabs on her to ensure she developed into someone worthy of his time and effort. She knew of his hopes for her, that the greatness that would make the heir of Randor a legendary hero on his world somehow also extended to all the Eternian king sired as well. At first, perhaps he was interested in a hero he could wield as a weapon, but as time passed, as Adore continued to succeed and Hordak's health continued to decline, he wanted not for a hero, but an heir. 

This is why, in this moment, Shadow Weaver has difficulty saying the words she must say to him.

“Something must have happened on Eternia, my Lord,” she says, her bottom lips dragging behind her words to cause a soft hiss. “Her magical aura has tripled in strength and she dare not tell me a thing.”

Hordak says nothing. The muscles of his jaw flex and his pale eyes stare passed her, toward an indiscernible spot on the wall beyond that’s infinitely more interesting than she is. He walks from the room the same way he entered, slamming his fist hard against the heavy wood of the double doors as he walks by. 

-

Ice grenades explode all around them, but Adora, Catra, and their squad still flank to the right as they were ordered. There is no time to doubt where the others are, if they've covered the same distance on the other side, not with projectile explosives going off all around them. Visibility has been cut by ninety percent with this horrendous blizzard, but Adora’s squad still pushes through. They have to penetrate the defenses, they have to stop the magic user causing the blizzard, and they have to do it so the rest of the envoy can continue on to Castle Chill.

Her squad hunches at the base of an ice wall where the rushing snow and wind can’t hit them. Adora hesitates only momentarily, a small doubt in her head about the other teams, whether or not they’d made it to the wall. One squadron going in alone is near suicide and she has had her fill of suicide missions. Catra bumps her shoulder and shoots her a grin, weapon drawn.

“What's wrong?” Catra asks. “Dying not good enough for the princess of the Horde?”

“Now’s really not the time, Kitty Cat,” Adora says and chambers a bullet in her firearm. 

They exchange small smirks before a section of the wall explodes around the corner and they push off the wall and they rush inside through the opening. Arrows rain down from above and they take cover behind chunks of debris. Adora curses. Where the hell was their support?

Above them, upon a platform of ice, stands a woman conjuring up spells of wind and snow. There is a row of archers along the top protecting her, all points trained on them.

“Cover me,” Adora shouts and grabs hold of straps dangling from Grizzlor’s light jacket, bracing her feet against his back. 

“I was joking about the dying!” Catra curses, slams a new magazine in firearm and drops out of cover to let her bullets fly, forcing the archers behind sheets of metal welded to the railings.

It gives Adora and Grizzlor enough time to dash in. She ducks her head behind his shoulders and counts as Catra takes down one archer after another while the eight foot mass of fur with teeth and claws bounding toward them makes the other archers scatter. 

“Okay, Grizz. Okay. Almost there.” 

Adora climbs to his shoulders and crouches just as he slams his feet and leaps, the extra momentum launching her in the air toward the platform. An arrow digs into her shoulder and she lands harder than expected, pulling two daggers from both boots before slinging one toward the sorceress and the second at the last archer.

The blizzard immediately stops when the woman drops to the floor, freeing the dagger. Adora slings it at an archer, catching him in his shoulder. The last of the archers flee and she returns her attention to the dying woman at her feet. She's so young. Just a kid, a damn kid. Blood leaks from the corner of her lips as she bleeds out, but she looks so scared. Adora kneels. Her eyes have glazed over with her own memories and she is reaching out, trying to call someone. Against her better judgement, Adora takes her hand and isn't prepared for the immediate comfort it brings the girl just before she dies. 

Adora frowns. She shouldn't have done that. How many times does she need to remember Hordak's rules? No mercy for the enemy. Why is it this one the one rule she always manages to break?

Bullets whiz by her head as a line of soldiers file on the catwalk across the way and Adora dashes behind a large sheet of metal welded. It happens so quickly. The soldiers take aim on her squad, rifles set against shoulders for support. Once more the gorge from the Crimson Wastes fills her memory and all she does is react. 

She’s not conscious of the pain when she snaps the arrow in half and takes off running, or of the way her right wrist guard begins to burn, or that the blue-gray gem is perfectly visible now. All she knows is that she has to protect her people down there. She will not lose anyone this day.

When her wrist guard is at its highest point of burning, the blue-gray gem explodes from it, shooting out toward her fingers like a bullet and producing the Sword of Protection upon its exit. Adora doesn’t stop to think about the sorcery involved in this. She brandishes the sword just as she rounds the corner of the catwalk prepared for the rifles that turn her way and then the entire structure quakes. The tremble is so violent everyone has to grab hold of something to keep standing. Below her, Adora can see Catra staring at her, surprised, uncertain, ...worried? 

Giant icicles from the frozen ceiling come smashing down all around her, tearing at the suspended catwalk. The ground rumbles and cracks and large crevice opens in the ice floor. The catwalk breaks and Adora falls. She and Catra exchange glances before she, along with the Sword of Portection, tumbles downward into the mouth of the crevice. 

It may just be her imagination, but Adora thinks she can hear Catra call out her name. It’s the only thought of comfort she has time for before the opening to the crevice disappears and all that’s left is the terrible rumbling all around her.

-

In the legends, there is always talk of a Cavern of Fire where the First Ones reside. It was supposed to be a place of incredible magic, of indiscernible age. After they had finished creating the rest of the cosmos, the First Ones made Etheria from stardust they gathered from space and a jar full of good intentions. They crushed the two together and made a paste and baked it in the center of the sun. What came out was a new planet, the smallest one they had ever made, seeded with all the life from their jar of intentions. A paradise, a place of magic and mysticism, where they could rest from all their work.

If the Cavern of Fire really exists, Adora imagines it will look much like the underground cave she lies in now. Five pillars of flames shoot up violently from stone cauldrons and illuminate the spacious area, keeping the place warm and dry. The fall pushed the tip of the arrow all the way through her shoulder and she grimacers as she yanks it the rest of it out, gritting her teeth as she takes a moment to regain herself. On the ground beside her is the sword that claimed her and she winces when she bends to pick it up.

Adora leans against the wall and creeps by the five flame pillars through a archway and steps into a magnificent room. The floors are made of quartz and crystal that swirl with rainbow colors from a bright light shining in the center. She almost feels bad for bright droplets of blood she leaves behind each step.

The light shimmers and a voice vibrates through the room. “You carry a weapon of great power.” 

She grips the sword cautiously and glances about the empty room. There’s a short silence and all she hears is the crackling of the flames in the next room. 

“Are you a First One?” she asks. “Did you make Etheria?”

“You saw the First Ones in the Cavern of Fire beyond. They merely made a planet. Then life came along and made that planet into Etheria,” the voice says and the light in the room shimmers again. “I am Light Hope. I am what remains of their good intentions.”

“What remains,” Adora repeats, still trying to find the source of the voice. 

“I have been called many things. Most recently, I am called the source, but I have been known as the keeper who sustains this world. I keep Etheria balanced. I keep it alive.”

Now Adora sees. Each time the voice comes, the light before her shimmers like sunlight on cresting waves. Light Hope isn't a person hiding in the light. Light Hope is the light.

“I called you here for a reason, Adora of the line of Randor,” Light Hope says. “Etheria was to be a place that nourishes magic and the First Ones depleted theirs by building the cosmos. They are tired. The Horde are like parasites, draining the well of magic, faster than it can replenish. This war will end soon. Etheria is running out of time.” 

Adora pauses, cautiously, and then says, “What happens when time runs out?”

Light Hope gleams in quiet concern.

“They will erase it and begin anew.” 

She stares at the blue-gray gem on her sword, lowering her head. She closes her eyes and takes in a breath, focuses on the rhythm of her breathing. This doesn't make sense. None of this is making sense. What is he saying? She is shaking her head, but the loss of blood is making her feel faint and dizzy. She leans against a crystal wall.

“What do you mean?” she asks, perplexed, maybe even horrified and scared. “Everyone who lives here, every living thing that calls this place home…”

“Everything and everyone will cease to be.” Light Hope’s voice vibrates in synchronization with the his flickering shine. “Everyone except you.”

Now she is angry. She pushes down the fear and the dares to straighten against the wall, dares to glare and raise her voice to an entity she can tell is older than she can fathom. 

“And why not me?” she demands. “Why shouldn’t I die here with everyone else?” 

Light Hope does not hesitate. He says, “Because you are not Etherian. You will be returned to where you belong, to Eternia.”

Now, Adora feels the weight of the previous weeks heavy on her shoulders. She lets her hands drop to her side and the sword slips from her fingers and falls to the crystalline floor with a loud clang. She thinks of her men on the ice above her, outnumbered and abandoned at that fort with no help coming. She thinks of Hordak on his throne, resting his eyes when no one else is in the room, and ignoring the exhaustion that decays his body even more every day, of Grizzlor when he was a pup clinging to her because he had no one else to cling to. 

She thinks of Catra’s voice calling her name as she tumbles into darkness and laughing through an awkward joke. If she were to die like everyone else it would be different, but Adora doesn’t think she has the strength to, once again, survive when everyone else perishes together in a single moment. She doesn’t have the strength to be left behind again. Finally, she lowers her head and comes the closest to crying she has in a long while. 

“What do I have to do?” she asks, her voice soft and quivering. She clenches her hands into fists and lifts her head, glowering into the light above her. “You called me here so what do I have to do to stop this?” 

Light Hope flickers quietly. 

“Your sword, the one that has claimed you. Do you know what it's called?” 

He waits while she grimaces, wiping frustrated tears with dirty palms, and then he gleams almost pleased when she seems to piece it together. The Sword of Protection. That's what they called it on Eternia. Her eyes widen. 

“Do you have something to protect now, Adora?” 

Adora gazes into his light with fierce eyes now, her anger dissolving away into determination. She says, “Tell me what I need to do.”

He gives her simple commands, easy commands, commands that take little effort from her already weary body. She picks up the sword as he instructs. She lifts it into the air as he instructs and she says the words that he instructs her to say.

“For the honor of Grayskull…”

-

Catra slumps against an ice wall, gripping her sides where three bullets had ripped through her, just barely missing her ribcage. She can tell from how light-headed she feels that she's lost a lot of blood, but she can just make out Grizzlor who plows through a crowd soldiers, his brown fur matted red with blood. He pounds his fist on the floor where Adora had fallen, but it has since sealed itself up, whatever it was. The pull of gravity on her heavy heart makes Catra slide down the length of the wall to the stained snow below.

Some way to go, Catra. Freezing, leaking red, and not sure what happened to Adora. Not exactly how she'd thought this would happen.

Grizzlor comes to her side and scoops her up in an arm. He keeps her in a corner, holding her close to his chest and shielding her from the harsh wind. Catra pats his arm out of appreciation. The brute had some redeeming qualities, she supposes. 

Then, the ground shakes once more and is pulled apart again, the rumble of upset earth and cracking ice nearly deafening in Catra’s ears. She watches it with an idiotic hope that the last image she’ll ever see of Adora isn’t of her falling into an abyss. A hand reaches out and slams flat on the ice and a woman pulls herself out of the crevice. She looks like she stepped out of a myth with her waves of blonde and golden head piece with flared wing. Strapped to her back is a sword and a red cape flutters behind her. 

“I’m too late,” she says and surveying the scene, but she stops when she turns to see Grizzlor and Catra behind her.

Grizzlor immediately stands alert, his ears perking up and a small snort escaping his wide nostrils. He lets out a whine that immediately makes Catra suspicious and she looks up at him. He lifts her with him when he stands and takes a few wobbly steps to the stranger. With great care and worry, he sets a wincing Catra down on the snow before her and whines again. The woman gives him a quick pet and thanks him before taking a knee in the snow beside Catra.

“You’ve been abandoned,” the woman says to them, ripping off long strips from her cape. “No one is coming back for you.” 

“S'Fine. Not leaving with Adora anyway,” Catra says and sucks air through her teeth. She narrows her eyes at her. “She fell right where you climbed up, stranger. Where is she?”

“She’s safe. She lost a lot of blood and so have you,” the woman says, first undoing the buttons of Catra’s coat before coaxing the zipper down. “Let me see your wounds now so I can reach Castle Chill before the Horde Crawler does.” 

Catra shoots out a hand and grabs her arm, gripping it tighter than she thought she could manage with her blood loss. She pulls herself up as much as she can and repeats her questions, enunciating each word clearly.  
“Where is Adora?”

The way the woman looks at her is hard to decipher, touched almost, a little concerned, even slightly impressed. She closes the distance between their faces, holding Catra's gaze, as if to say she is not afraid of the unvoiced threat in her question. 

“You must be Catra then,” she says and Catra's vision begins to blur. “I said your Adora is safe. She's fine. Now will you let me plug your holes so you can see her or am I dragging your lifeless body back for her to see you?”

Catra winces and hisses with pain and the strain takes it toll. She lets go of the woman's forearm and collapses back against the snow, trying to keep her thoughts coherent. 

“And who the hell are you?” she asks, taking deep even breathes.

As she works to stop the bleeding and bandage the wounds, the woman smiles, almost as if she herself understands how ridiculous it sounds. 

“Me?” she ask. “I am She-Ra.” 

 

Continued…

Next: Half-Way Human. A new variable has entered the war, a woman who calls herself She-Ra, and nothing will be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One, I had to rework the chapters. The writing is such shit. I couldn’t leave it untouched. But now I can make Adora and Catra textual instead of subtextual. 
> 
> Two, Everything about the First Ones, Light Hope original purpose, and impending destruction of Etheria is not at all canon. I made that crap up. Maybe ten percent of this fic is actual canon, sooo anything that may offend or annoy is most likely my doing and not the source material. So. So, yeah.


	6. Half-Way Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has massive feels. I don't think I'm exaggerating either.

**Eternia**

On the surface, Adam of Eternia is a carefree layabout about who displays all the symptoms of having everything he’s ever wanted hand fed to him since birth. Perhaps this is to be expected of the only son of King Randor and Queen Marlena. It's difficult to believe he will become this great king the prophecy says he will. The truth, however, is that Adam feels his responsibility to his future throne, his future kingdom, and his people with a passion that sets fire to every nerve ending in his body. The Sword of Power gives Adam the incredible ability to harness that passion and convert it into pure muscle, a physical representation of the strength of his pure heart. 

It is this very same passion that has brought him to stand before his parents with their general and advisor, Duncan, at his side.. He waits only until the fourth and last person he's called to this meeting arrives. The Sorceress appears before them in a small flash of light and a gentle wind. He looks at each other them and asks one question.

“Who is Adora?”

Marlena's hand politely covering a mouth that drops open suddenly, and then she looks to her son who stares at her with stern eyes. Randor lets out the breath in his lungs in an even exhale and then reaches up and smoothes his mustache. The three of them, Marlena, Randor, and their old friend, Duncan, exchange glances Adam doesn't like.

“That’s a name from the past, Adam,” Duncan says. “Sometimes, things buried there should remain buried.” 

“No,” Randor says, sitting up straighter in his throne. “He's already asked the question. Let’s hope he has patience enough for us to figure out how to answer it.” 

Marlena clasps her hands on her lap and says, “How do you know that name, Adam?” 

“I met her.” Adam lets his fingers curl loosely. “I know we're related.” 

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Duncan starts. “You are an only child.”

“Then who is she?” Adam’s voice is stern and serious, so unlike him.

There is a moment of silence in the throne room, a chill heavy with a secret swallowed so long ago that the words are almost painful to find. In the end, it is the Sorceress who finally speaks.

“She is you,” she says and the others look away. “She is a part of you, born from a shard of your soul, to be your protector, one who would put her life on the line so that you may live should ever the need arise.” 

Duncan takes in a breath. 

“It was a decision the four of us made together. Since everyone knows of the prophecy we knew we had to keep you alive no matter what to actually fulfill it. We needed a decoy.” He pauses at how harsh that word sounds twenty years later, but makes himself continue. “Someone who can redirect misfortune away from you, leaving you free of danger.” 

Adam lowers his head and his fists are quivering by his side. He is beyond appalled, beyond disappointed. He is offended, for himself and for Adora. When he speaks his voice is tinted with anger. 

“You made a person,” he says, clenching his jaw shut. “Just to be a sacrifice, my sacrifice?” 

“You must understand, Adam,” the Sorceress says. “The fate of Eternia rests on your shoulders. You were told this the day the Sword of Power claimed you and set the prophecy into motion. You are too important to lose.” 

He has a special anger for her, one laced with a gleam of betrayal. He almost glares, almost, but she's the Sorceress and is due the respect her station commands. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Adam asks her. “When we had her here for two weeks, why didn’t you tell us both the truth?”

The reaction from the other three is mixed. It’s easy to see that Duncan has made a few connections between today’s discussion and the female stranger who stabbed his daughter in the stairwell, but this is news to Randor and Marlena.

“She was here?” Marlena asks. “Adora was here for so long and you did not tell me?”

“I apologize for not telling your majesty.” The Sorceress bows her head toward Marlena. “She has grown up with no knowledge of you or Eternia. At the time, it seemed unwise to toss her into a world she does not call home to people she does not call family.” 

“You didn’t give her a choice,” Adam says.

The Sorceress returns Adam’s gaze and her voices grows stern. She says, “She had a choice, Prince Adam, and she chose Etheria. When it comes to everything else, however, she is no different than you. She has no choice but to bear the burden that is hers to bear.” 

-

**Northern expanse, Etheria**

At that exact moment, in another galaxy, on the Northern expanse of another world, Catra slumps against a wall with Grizzlor cradling her and watches She-Ra swing her sword down, tearing into an armored vehicle before kicking it toward a few others that crawl her way. She grabs a bow slung across her back and a flame arrow stuck in the ice above her head and aims for the fuel tank. The heat from the explosion is magnificent and it caresses Catra’s cheeks delicately in the frozen temperatures. 

Balian calls the retreat and she watches as She-Ra stands guard, waiting for confirm, before turning her attention back to them. Her sword flickers impossibly before it just ...disappears, blinked out of existence. Catra is still light-headed, must have imagined that part. She forces her to focus, to observe. This She-Ra is an unknown and Hordak will have to hear about her. There is a warmth around her, a vague comforting warmth that Catra feels even more so when the woman kneels before her again.

“Come on,” she says, sliding her arms beneath her knees. “Lets get you rescued.”

Catra’s body is shaking, due to the cold or the shock or some combination of both and Grizzlor is pacing nervously, whining with his ears flattened and sniffing the air. He smells someone approaching. She-Ra gives a low curse, lifts Catra, and calls for Grizzlor to follow her. It's all Catra will remember before passing out.

The sovereign of the Kingdom of Snows rounds the wall Catra had leaned against. She'd made her way to the fort, surveyed the damage and the lives lost. It's the young spell caster that makes her stop and drop to her knees. Her sister. Her precious little sister had bled out in the cold like this? Undignified like this? She holds her sister close and mourns, she doesn't know how long. 

Then she sees the small dagger resting a foot away. Frosta conjures an ice slide that lifts the dagger and delivers it her to inspect and an anger flares within her. Adora. It must be. This dagger is almost identical to the one she'd pulled from her thigh years ago, when she'd not yet been crowned, when she was on the front with the rebellion, before her duties called her back here. 

Adora. 

Frosta owes her a few hurts she intends to make good one.

-

When Balian and his remaining forces reach the rendezvous point, he lifts his mirrored visors to get a better look at the three figures on the ground that have stopped his crawler in its tracks. To his left, Warrant Officer Entrapta nearly sneers at the sight of Grizzlor holding onto both Catra and Adora unconscious in his arms. 

“Don’t they ever die?” she asks, but his jaw tenses and he slips back under.

“Get them inside, Entrapta.” 

-

**Horror Hall, the Fright Zone**

A transparent image of Hunga, queen of the harpies, is cast over a thick mist that serves as a screen. There are small traces left of when she was human, but the horrible bone-like protrusions from her forehead and chin make them difficult to see. Her warped and elongated femur and thick claws are strong indications that anything once human in her has long since eroded. When she scowls at the conversation her wings, skeletal and molting, almost flex, and a few feathers peel off and fall, the skin beneath red and raw. 

“An alliance?” she asks, suspiciously.

Hordak says, “I request safe passage for my troops through your mountain range as it is a shortest route to Bright Moon and the Meadowlands. Now that Bright Moon is under my control, I will need quick access to it.”

“And why shouldn’t I rip your troops apart to feed my clan?” 

“Because I offer to feed your vengeance instead,” he says and beside Shadow Weavers conjures a small image of Angella in her cell on Beast Island. “I still have use of her of course, but access to Bright Moon is more vital for my present purposes.”

At the sight of the queen of Bright Moon, Hunga’s lip curls and twitches, revealing yellowed and deformed teeth. The disease that had caused it had pushed the very bones of her body around until joints broke skin and became horns, until her kneecaps twisted around like some animal’s, until her appetite for flesh long surpassed any normal diet she’d ever had. It was a painful process, this transformation, a horrible fate to suffer, quarantined in this mountain range by Micah and Angella. It was to keep the disease spreading, they had said, but for Hunga and the others like her, it was little more than execution by exile. Truly, it was not Micah and Angella’s most graceful of moments as King and Queen, and Hordak is all too willing to use their mistake to his advantage.

Hunga's black eyes squint.“All I am to do is allow your men to pass through?” 

“Of course. You and your clan will be left to the solitude you’re accustomed.” 

Hunga cackles once more and reaches up to stroke the sharpened bone that pokes from her cheek, brushing fingertips delicately over the pointed ends. 

“Very well,” she says. “Deliver Angella to me and you shall have your free pass.”

Pleased, Hordak gives only a nod of his head and a wave of his hand and Shadow Weaver ends the transmission, allowing the concentrated cloud of mist to dissipate through the cold air. 

“How comes the serum?” Hordak asks Shadow Weaver and she lowers her head so the ends of the hood hide her face in darkness.

“I have hit a small snag, my Lord,” she tells him. “I cannot remove the toxins and it will only make your condition worse when it wears off. It will, however, for a short time, make you as strong as you were twenty years ago.” 

Hordak curls his fingers into loose fists and raises them slightly in the air. He dares to close his eyes, dares to think of that time, his prime, the power he'd had, instead of this withering shell of himself. His skin absorbs the cool humid air and it grows clammy and wrinkled, but he doesn't care. Power is at his fingertips again. Power can be his again.

-

Adora wakes up in the infirmary, her cheeks raw and numb from abrasions due to the harsh winter wind in the North Pole. She touches them softly with her fingertips. Catra is sitting up in the bed beside hers watching her without an expression she's never seen grace her face. Her usual smirk is missing and she looks at her as if trying to see everything secret she holds inside. The focused attention almost unnerves Adora.

“What?” she asks her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m the one with three holes in my side, but you’re the one who sleeps a full twenty-four hours?” Catra asks. “And your shoulder. I could have sworn you took an arrow to the right, but there's wound. In fact, for someone swallowed by the earth, you're surprisingly wound free.”

“Did I?’ Adora asks and sits up, checking her shoulders. “A lot happened. It's hard to piece together. I mean, like you said, I was swallowed by the earth.”

Catra returns her gaze forward and finally a small smile breaks at the corners of her lips as she lifts a hand to her forehead 

“You’re right. You’re probably right anyway. I think I've imagined a few things myself up there too,” she says. “Did you see her too? The She-Ra woman?”

Adora nods and runs her hands through her hair, feeling the grease of days and Light Hope's voice resonates in her head.

“I saw her,” she says. 

“Who do you think she is?” 

“I don't know. I don't really care right now,” Adora says and then lets both feet drop to the cold stone below. “How is your side?” 

“Better. Nothing Scorpia's salve couldn't fix.” Catra raises the white infirmary gown to inspect the bandage that wraps around her stomach. Two small spots of red are dark against the white gauze. “We have to make a report on her.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Adora says, still unconcerned as she leans over the distance between their beds and inspects the blood stains on the wait gauze. 

“He'll want to ally her or eliminate her.” 

“I know.”

“Adora.” Catra says her name with an authority she's never used with her before and it makes Adora glance up from her side to look at her. Her expression is solemn. “What happened to you after the ground opened? She-Ra knew my name. What are you not telling me?”

Adora doesn't answer at first. She doesn't know how yet. 

She can still hear Light Hope’s voice resonating in her mind, can still feel the heat of the First One’s as they sleep in their large cauldrons, their bodies of flame blazing loud and fierce. They will end it, Light Hope had said. The First Ones will erase it all and start anew if the Horde persists. Adora remembers the incredible strength she felt when she held that sword in the air, of the energy that coursed through her, jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending and leaving a trail of fire behind in its wake. 

This is a deed that cannot be undone. She cannot take back her answer. Catra knows her too well. She's already suspicious and Adora has just started this mission. One more time and she'll figure it out and it's already a matter of time before Hordak and Shadow Weaver do as well. Now, Adora knows, in order to stop the Horde, in order to save it, she must ultimately leave it. 

“I told her to save you and then blacked out. Woke up here. You actually saw more of her than I did,” she answers finally, pulling her feet back on her bed. “Lord Hordak will probably call me before he calls you or Balian. I'll tell him She-Ra exists. You tell him the details.”

“Adora,” Catra says again, firmer this time.

Adora answers her with a gaze that says she is no longer humored. She matches Catra's tone, one that says the conversation is finished.

”Kit.”

It's only a few more seconds of silence before Catra concedes, withdrawing her questions when her eyes falls away. She breathes a little easier.

“Now that's a memory. I can't remember the last time you called me that.” She muses on the nickname a moment and then eases herself back down, letting her eyes close. “I may have missed it.”

Adora watches her for a moment. She knows the last she used the name even. It was the same night as tavern, the drunken celebration that went on two rounds too long, and some irritating infantry soldiers who were not as charming as they thought they were. Her memory of the rest of the night afterward is hazy, but she remembers a moment of feather light touches and some whispered words. It's all she needs to know what happened.

_Sorry, but this can't happen._

_Kit-._

_No, Adora. You're drunk and it's not happening._

She lets herself lay back down and draped an elbow over her eyes. Catra has never spoken of that exchange between them and Adora has never asked. Nothing like that has happened between them since. The infirmary is deathly silent and she thinks about leaving, when, where, and how, without being seen by anyone. Standard protocol is to shoot known traitors on sight. She can't do that to Catra. She can't ask her to come with her. If she can't save her too, what's the point of saving Etheria? 

-

**Eternia**

Adam whirls around and ducks padded projectiles that race his way. They whiz right by him and strike the courtyard’s wall and drop with dead weight to the ground. His anger from the morning still hasn't subsided. Not much can make the prince angry, but what does is usually something that offends his code of honor. 

“Calm down and talk to me, Adam,” Duncan says stepping closer and knocking one of the projectiles aside. 

“A sacrifice, Duncan,” Adam says with thin words, smashing another flying target clear out of the courtyard. “The four of you created a human being so she could be my scapegoat. If you think about it, I am quite calm.”

“It’s not that we didn’t care for her, Adam.” Duncan sighs. He doesn't even try to excuse a truth. “After we placed that bit of your soul in her, she was just like any other baby and we all fell in love with her. It’s just, before that, she was only a shell conjured up by magic.”

Now, Adam turns to look at him, ignoring the padded targets that speed dangerously. A hit from one won't kill, but it will certainly hurt and leave a purple bruise behind. Neither men care. Adam almost glares at the old general who taught him how to hunt, who trained him and doesn't think he's ever felt disappointment in him until now.

“She deserves to know the truth, Duncan, and you know it.” 

Duncan pauses and lowers the bow he holds in his hands. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. 

“Put yourself in all of our positions,” he says. “Would you want to be the one to tell a young woman that she is not a complete person?”

Adam lowers his gaze. 

“Now, put yourself in her position,” Duncan tells him, approaching him to place a hand on his shoulder. “Would you even want to know?” 

Adam shakes his head and takes a few steps back. “I’m glad she was taken. It saved her from this all. Look at me, Duncan. I’m fine. I’ve lasted twenty-two years without a sacrifice.”

The way Duncan looks at him now makes Adam’s skin feel prickly and he immediately knows that there is more to this story that he hasn’t been told yet. 

“You really think nothing’s happened to you for this long without a sacrifice?” The old man is shaking his head now. “As I understand it, she's still funneling misfortune from you. She has been all these years, and she'll continue to do as long as she's alive. That's what that piece of you in her is doing. Now she's got the sword that was made to protect yours in battles. We don't know what's going to happen now.”

Adam is livid. One of the padded projectiles slams hard against his shoulder, but he doesn't flinch, only grabs it before it falls and then slams it against Duncan's chest as he turns to walk away. It doesn't matter where, just away from him and his parents and the sorceress, from the people who did something he finds so wrong.

“However she came to be, Duncan, she is still a person,” Adam says loud enough for Duncan to hear. “She deserved better.”

-

**Throne room, Fright Zone**

When Adora takes a knee to bow in greeting, she holds it for a long moment, her head so low, and it makes him wary. What's going through her head, Hordak wonders. Why hold the greeting this long? She lifts her head to look at him, but stays on one knee, her fist still to her heart.

“Tell me about Eternia now, Force Captain,” he says, observing her. 

“I fought with Eternia's hero and was captured. He calls himself He-Man,” she had says. “He wields the sword you seek, but the enchantment on it allows only him to hold it. During my captivity, I was told the truth, my Lord.” 

Her expression remains neutral remains neutral when she says this and he can't see any tell-tale sign of what truth exactly she was told or what she thinks of it. She does not look away, does not back down. She shows him no sign of weakness. She is now exactly as he taught her to be since she was a child. Unreadable. How annoying, the small bit of pride he feels at this. 

“Let me tell you something, Adora,” he says, leaning forward on one knee to level her in his gaze. “Some people are born for greatness. You are one of those people. I made sure you were given every advantage to cultivate that greatness.” 

“For the Horde.” She nods. 

“For my throne,” He corrects her. “For my legacy.”

“A child from another world.” 

He knows what question she's asking, knows that she studies him now just as he studies her, cautious and careful, not sure how much the other knows or how much they are willing to share.

“You want to know why?” he asks her. “To forge a powerful weapon from the ground up with a child of prophecy. What other purpose would I have?”

“Somehow, you ended up with the wrong one,” she says, almost too bluntly, near audaciously. “I am not the child of prophecy.”

Hordak summons the effort to draw himself up, straightening his back. His head tilts back and he says, “I'm not interested in what you aren't, Adora. I'm only interested in what you are.”

His finest soldier? His Force Captain? His heir? Or something that is not his at all?

She is quietly stoic and still, giving no indication of her inner world or how it might have changed just now. Look at you, Adora. You are perfection. Twenty-two years of proper training with a proper measure of standard. Someone worthy to sit on his throne when he no longer can. All that effort he put into her, it's a shame it will all go to waste. .

“There is a woman named She-Ra, my Lord,” she says. “I would not concern myself or you for the sake of one woman, but this one you should be cautious of. At this moment, she is the only real threat to your empire and defeating her will not be so easy.”

Adora stands, completes the salute, and bows her head, and without permission, she takes a few steps backwards before leaving without being excused. When the large doors close shut behind her, he curls his fingers into a fist and slams it hard against the armrest. It wasn't outright stated, but her words left him with a vague understanding that she has just said goodbye and he has just been threatened. 

He sits for a moment in the silence of the room and considers the conversation once more. Then Hordak does the one thing he never does, something tragically unlike him it almost makes him ashamed. He ignores his instinct. He will wait to have her executed until it is clear that her loyalty is not to him.

-

Catra stretches out on her bed and winces slightly. The medicinal salve has worked miracles, healing her wounds at a fraction of the time, but the unnatural speed makes the wounds flare painfully every now and again. They wounds are shallow now and all that is left is for the skin to heal over and seal her up again. It means she can stretch again, if even slightly. 

There's a knock on the door and she looks in time to see Adora open it and step in. She lifts a bottle of wine as the door slowly closes itself behind her. Catra arches a curious eyebrow.

“One, what's the wine for?” she says, “and two, you've never set foot inside my quarters since you pulled princess rank and secured it for me. What's going on?”

“I didn't pull princess rank,” Adora says quietly cross the room to the bed that's pushed against a wall. “Lord Hordak let me choose a reward for the Crimson Wastes. I got you a room.”

“Oh, is that what happened? Well, guess it pays to not die beside his practical daughter,” Catra says, watching as her make her way over, noticing how unusually somber she seems tonight. Something's wrong.

“Here,” Adora tells her, setting the bottle on the small side table. “To celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” 

“Those three holes in your side,” she says taking a seat beside her on the bed. “That scar on your chest. And any other scars you’ve acquired or will acquire because of me.” 

Catra laughs bringing a hand to cover her eyes because the thought was so absurd. She'd thought something awful had happened, but it's really just Adora suffering a bout of guilt. She breathes easier now, lifts a bare foot and gives Adora's thigh a small shove because her shoulder is too far away to sink a fist into. It makes Adora smile. Finally.

“I thought you were going to tell me Hordak was dead or something,” she says, letting the last bit of laughter fade. “And get over yourself, captain. These three beauties aren't yours. They're Balian's. Stop being so greedy.”

“That's a thought I didn't need, Kit. That any part of you belongs to him,” Adora says, ignoring how it makes Catra pause. “Are you going to open that bottle tonight or do I have to wait until Sunder comes back to the Horde?”

It's a cheap blow, one Adora hasn't used on her in a long time. The mention of Sunder always causes a reaction in her, an involuntary feeling of betrayal and disgust. She reaches over, yanks the bottle from the table, and uncorks it, taking an irritated swig. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been anyone else, if it hadn't been the only other person Catra let herself trust. Every time she thinks of it, she always thinks how better it would have been if it had been anyone but him. Teaches her everything she needed to know to excel, to be the finest soldier this side of Adora, and then just leaves them both behind. Just like that. She'll never forgive that. 

“Still angry, I see,” Adora says with a small laugh reaching over to take the bottle from her hands. “It's been years.”

“Why aren't you still angry?,” Catra says, ignoring the flare of pain when she sits up straighter. “We trusted him, Adora. He was our commanding officer. We owe that man our lives. Hell, half of the empire today is territory gained under his leadership. And then he's just gone. Vanished in the night. Bastard didn't even say bye.”

“You know why he didn't. You know that if he'd told anyone, he would have been killed on the spot.” 

He should have been. He should have just died on Horde territory, before he could place a foot outside it, died where his soldiers would now, could bury him, could say goodbye. That's what should have happened. 

“The only thing worse than a deserter is a traitor,” she says with a scoff. 

Adora lets out a small smile in agreement and takes a drink.

”You’re right.”

”Of course I’m right.” 

Another flare of pain comes, worse than the last one, and it makes Catra wince, bringing a hand to her side as if holding it there would somehow ease the pain. In the next moment, the bottle is back on the table and Adora is beside her, taking hold of her hands and gently lifting them from her side. She pulls up the shirt and inspects the bandaging, the red stains from that morning in the infirmary already a rusted brick. 

Catra is motionless, the crown of Adora's head just below her chin, and she leans back some on her palms for a little breathing space. 

“You haven't changed these since this morning.” 

The scolding disappointment in her voice does little to hide the concern that warms Catra's chest like she'd just had another swig of the wine.

“It's fine. They're nearly sealed, anyway. It's just growing pains from the new tissue,” she starts, but stops when Adora pushes herself up from the bed and snatches the salve from the dresser before coming to stand before her.

“Shirt off now or I'll do it for you.” She makes an impatient gesture with her hand and then removing the lid from the jar. “Come on.”

Catra stares up at her almost stunned, leaning back on her palms and unable to move. She forces a smile and says, carefully, “I know we've said worse to each other and brushed it off before, Adora, but I don't think I can tonight. ”

It's awkward how Adora stares down at her in silence, unmoving, holding the jar and its lid completely still. Catra immediately regrets everything she just said. She looks away with a small scoff.

“Argh, you're so damn gullible,” she says with a huff and straightens to remove her shirt and starts to unwind the gauze. “They're fine. Really. They've probably already sealed. I doubt I even need this bandage anymore.”

Adora calmly replaces the lid on the jar and sets it on the table next to the wine. When she speaks, her voice is smooth and low. Everything about her right now is unhurried and deliberate, even the fact that she still stands so close she almost touches her knees. 

“It was the night of the tavern,” she says, letting her hands fall back to her sides. “The last time I used Kit. I made it a point to stop after that.”

“Why?” 

“Pride, maybe. Kit is the one who didn't want me. I needed to respect that.”

Catra is nearly finished unwrapping her side when she looks at her. She says it like so casually, like it's a fact she read in a book that has no bearing on their lives. Is that it? Is that what she thinks happened? The expression on Adora's face is so stoic it's frustrating. It makes her feel distant, unattached, like no matter how fast she ran, she would never be able to reach her, She will always be beyond her reach. She makes herself laugh to lighten the heavy air. 

“It's not that you weren't wanted, Adora, but you were drunk and bored and I was convenient,” she tells her trying to shrug it all off nonchalantly. “If I'm going to have you, I'd rather you didn't regret it the day after.”

Adore stares at her. “Why are you so infuriatingly noble with me?”

Catra's answer is almost automatic. It's an answer she's old friends with, something she's carried with her for more than she would ever admit. She doesn't hesitate, barely bats an eye.

“Because you're you, because you were the cadet who stunned even the drill sergeant from her first day on, you were the standard we were all measured against, because despite that you never let any one of us get left behind,” she says, without no shame, holding Adora's gaze unapologetically. “You were specifically chosen by Hordak to succeed him and you made me promise to serve at your right hand side. You aren't just the future of the Horde. You're my future too. I will see you to that throne, Adora, and then I will be there by your side as I promised.”

And after all that was just said, the only thing Adora replies with is, “Are you wounds healed?”

Catra fights the disappointment. She releases Adora's hand and looks down at her midsection and finishes removing the bandages. The three holes have sealed, but the pink skin is still thin and raw feeling. Other than the tenderness, they're fine.

“Healed enough,” she says, lightly touching one of the scars. 

“Good.”

Adora steps closer, pulling her hand free and gently pushing between her knees. She leans over when Catra's head snaps back up to look at her and with gentle fingers on her chin, holds her face still and the rest of her body falls in line. 

“Kit, right now, I'm not drunk and you're not just a convenience,” she says. “The only thing I would regret tonight is another no from you. Now, decide if you want to have me or not.”

Catra's voice catches at the back of her throat, but she forces it out on fragmented breath and says, “Yes, I'd like to have you.”

Adora kisses her and it's not at all how she'd thought it would be. It is so much more disarming, a formidable warmth that sears through the past two years of double edged teases and half-serious comments. She kisses like this is their last opportunity, a selfish indulgence it took a perfect storm to orchestrate, and all of it breaks Catra's heart in a moment it should be soaring. The three once-holes in her side flare painfully in warning, but she ignores it. She fists her shirt tight and yanks her down with her. 

Adora, what are you feeling right now? What happened during that mission and why won't you tell me? Why do I feel like we're falling apart?

She grips her closer, clutches tighter, steals savage kisses when it looks like she's distracted by unwanted thoughts. Catra holds her firm through her orgasm and long after it. She's afraid to let her go. Somehow she knows, if she does, Adora will float away, like she will never again be tangible enough for Catra to hold once more. So, she doesn't let go. She mustn't let go. 

She awakes to an empty bed without having known she'd fallen asleep at all. The silence that greets her in the room is almost suffocating. She knows her world is changed. She knows when she leaves this room, when she starts the day, she'll discover what's changed, and somehow she knows, it will be different in a way that will shatter her heart.

 

Continued...

 

 **Next: Where Loyalties Lie.** <\-- Subject to change. I put a lot of that chapter into this one. It made more sense here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to rewrite and replace the first two chapters so this one makes more sense relationshipwise.


End file.
